


Old Foes, New Allies

by icestorm1196



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, some language, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icestorm1196/pseuds/icestorm1196
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an idea I had running about in my head—what if Sally found out that Sherlock wasn't dead after Reichenbach? I took some liberties, obviously—but I wanted them to have some sort of proof he was innocent. I am sorry if everyone is out of character. </p><p>No slash</p><p>Rated for some bad language.</p><p>Please Review. Even flames accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprises

Sally Donovan practically flew down the street. She wasn't sure if the men were still following her, but it was a safe bet to assume that they were. She ducked into an alley, breathing hard. She clutched her radio, listening. Satisfied that she was, at least for the moment, alone, she brought it to her lips.

"It's Sergeant Donovan. I need back up," she quickly gave her location. "Suspects, three men, Caucasian, all between 5'8" and 6.' Brown hair…ack…"

Her head was suddenly yanked back.

"I don't think so girly," hissed a voice in her ear. He ripped the radio from her hand. In what seemed a bit like overkill, he threw it to the ground and shot it. Sally winced.

"That'll just bring them sooner you know," she grunted at him. His arm tightened around her throat.

"By that time girly, you'll be dead, and I'll be gone." She felt the cold metal of a gun pressed against her head. She closed her eyes. Then, there was a sharp tug on her neck, and the man let go. Sally stumbled forward, spinning, trying to see what had happened. There was a thick, muscular man, looking in fury at a tall, thin man who stood with his back to Sally.

"Come now," drawled her savior, "can't we settle this like civilized people?" The muscular thug's only response was to charge the smaller man. He moved faster than someone of his size should be able to move, but it didn't seem to bother the thin man. He quickly side-stepped the attack, coming in quickly with a series of blows of his own that were almost to fast to follow. Groin shot, punch to the stomach, another to the solar plexus, haymaker to the ear, mui thai clinch to the head and knee the man twice in the face. The bigger man lay still on the dirty alley. The thinner man was breathing hard. "Guess not," he commented dryly. Sally squinted, trying to get a good look at him.

He was tall, with sort of ginger hair. He turned to face her, finally. His eyes were dark, hard to tell in the darkness of the alley, but probably brown. He had slightly tanned skin and a smattering of freckles. He wore jeans, a red T-shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker. Sally had never seen him before in her life. But there was something familiar about him all the same. It was really quite unnerving. Something about those cheekbones, the shape of the eyes…the lips.

The man ducked down next to her, checking her neck for injuries. "You alright?" He asked gruffly. She nodded, still staring.

"Why did you...how did you...do that? How did you even know what was going on?" The man gave a grin. Again, Sally was struck with the notion that she should know this man. Also that it was incredibly odd to see him smile.

"I was bored and I have a police scanner. I'm living not to far from here. The police are useless when it comes to timing. You ought to know that Sergeant Donovan."

"How did you know my name?" Sally demanded. The man rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, you people. You _said_ it, remember? On your radio? I did mention that I have a scanner. Pay attention." And suddenly Sally knew him. She was surprised she hadn't seen it before, though, to be fair, she probably hadn't wanted to see.

"But…That's impossible. You're dead. You died, two years ago."

The man jerked away from Sally. "Sorry," he muttered. "Don't know what you mean. But if you are fine, then I'll be going."

" _No_ ," she protested somewhat louder than was necessary. "I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes, and I demand…" that was as far as she got before he was upon her, clapping a hand over her mouth.

"Do please _Shut. Up_." He pulled out a phone with his free hand; he pushed a button, than spoke quickly, giving their location. "Car. Now." It took less than a minute before a large black car came around the corner. Sherlock quickly pushed Sally into the car. "Home," he instructed the driver.

"Yes Mr Beck."

"Sorry, Mr What?"

"It is a long story Sergeant. One I do not have any desire to share with you. However, I cannot have you telling anyone of tonight's events. So some sort of explanation is necessary. It will wait until we arrive at my flat."

"But…"

"If you persist in talking Sergeant Donovan, I will be forced to knock you out." He looked so dangerous, and he was supposed to be dead and so Sally found herself quietly staring out the window for the rest of the journey. They pulled up less than five minutes later to a smallish flat on High Street.

"Wait a moment. I've been here. This is Molly Hooper's place." Sherlock glanced at her.

"Yes." He took a key from his pocket and quickly let the two of them into the flat. The black car disappeared around the corner. As soon as Sherlock closed the door, Sally turned on him.

"What the _fuck?_ You are _dead_. There was a funeral and everything. You fucking killed yourself because we found out you were a fake and a total psychopath. You jumped off a building! No one could have survived that, so…so….start…talking."

"If you would stop your inane chatter for half a second, I might tell you. Clearly, I didn't die."

"Oh Sherlock, did you get the…." Molly's voice trailed off as she noticed Sally. "Oh." Sherlock looked relieved.

"Show her the tape Molly. I have….work to do." Molly followed him up the stairs with her eyes.

"That's all he ever does now. Work. It's good I guess. But he barely eats, and almost never sleeps. If he doesn't catch everybody…" she started nervously.

"You helped him?" interrupted Sally, "Molly, after how he treated you, how he treated everyone…even after he was proven a fake…you helped that freak fake his death?"

"He isn't a fraud Sergeant Donovan. He never was. Moriarty was real. Richard Brook was someone that Moriarty invented. It's all right in his name even, Sherlock explained it. Rich Brook. Reichenbach." 

"I don't understand. He is an arrogant berk, he is a fraud, he is dead, then he isn't, then he kidnaps me…what is going on?"

"Look," Molly sighed. "He really isn't a bad person. He really is as clever as everyone thought he was. He was never a fraud. But he had to die."

"If he is such a good person, than how could he do this? Lestrade has been facing an inquiry, IA has been on his ass since the whole…Sherlock is a fake thing, no one trusts him, he is the laughingstock of the Yard... Sherlock ruined him. He ruined him Molly. And does he even care about that? Does he even care about John?" Sally wasn't sure why she was bringing John into this, because she wasn't even really friends with the man, but Molly dropped her eyes.

"He didn't have a choice. And of course he knows what is going on with both of them. You have to believe that he…he has tried to help Lestrade in any way possible. He got the inquiry dropped at least. He has been trying to tell IA to get off his back—or rather, Mycroft's been trying, but he hasn't had as much luck as he had hoped. The most he can do is call in tips from time to time and hope that with enough solved cases on the books Lestrade might get his reputation back. And as for John…he asks about him everyday. Every single day, Sally. He checks up on him, even though it is dangerous. I have found countless unfinished letters from Sherlock trying to explain things. John still texts him. He keeps them all. How can you say he doesn't care?"

"Because he never seemed to in the past. And no one could be as clever as he claimed to be. No one."

"Oh, and somehow he managed to commit impossible crimes, get away with them, solve them, get other people convicted—people who confessed, and never recanted their confessions, fake his own death, and he ISN'T clever? How does that work?" Sally fell silent. That had never happened before. Molly Hooper—timid, shy, silly little Molly Hooper had stunned Sally Donovan into silence, granted, the two of them hadn't had all that much interaction that wasn't case related, but still. _Molly Hooper_ just wasn't the sort to stun anyone into silence with her words. "Look. Just watch the tape alright? There isn't any sound, but I have a recording of that too."

She pulled a flash drive off of a chain around her neck and plugged it into the computer. "Sherlock and I both have one. It is conclusive proof that he is innocent and not at all a fake." There were only two files on the drive. Molly opened the video file first. "It takes a bit for anything to happen. Sherlock planted the camera the night before he jumped. The night he came to me, actually. It was one of the things I helped him with." A door opened and Richard Brook, (Jim Moriarty?) walked onto the roof. He walked over to the edge of the roof and sat down on the ledge. He made a call. "He is telling someone to call John, pretending to be a paramedic to let him know that Mrs Hudson had been shot and was dying."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"John told me about the phone call," Molly shrugged. "Also, we enhanced the tape and zoomed in and Sherlock can read lips."

"Of course he can," muttered Sally. "You just took his word for it then?"

"John's as well. John used basically the same words in describing the call that Sherlock said Jim used. Plus, it makes sense. Jim wouldn't want any loose ends, and John would have been a witness. He didn't like to get his hands dirty, and he probably would have had to kill John himself. Sherlock knew Moriarty would send him away. And he knew that by the time he got back, it would be too late."

A few more moments passed on screen, then Brook (Moriarty?) looked at the phone again and started typing a text. "He is telling Sherlock to meet him." Two minutes later, the door burst open again. Sherlock came striding out. Brook (Moriarty?) was holding out his phone, saying something. Molly clicked the audio file.

"…it's just…staying." The shorter man was saying. Sally watched as the whole little drama played out, feeling sicker and sicker. "Oh just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort….Let me give you a little extra incentive. All your friends will die if you don't, " he said, rather joyfully, thought Sally. It was especially jarring since Sherlock was holding him over the edge of the roof.

"John," said Sherlock, his voice full of terror. That was the oddest part. Sherlock Holmes, afraid for the life of another human being?

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There is no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump." Sally put her hand to her lips as Sherlock slowly stepped onto the ledge. Then, inexplicably he began to laugh. Molly had tears in her eyes.

"He thought he was free. He thought he had an out. He didn't," she whispered. Sherlock leapt over to Moriarty, explaining his theory. He could find out the code word and then everyone would live and he wouldn't have to go through with the plan. The audio cut out as Moriarty shot himself. Molly wasn't sure why. She assumed it was because Sherlock had been so surprised that he had accidentally ended the call.

"WHAT?" yelped Sally. "He was there? Still? He DIED? But…that wasn't in the papers or anything, I…" Molly touched her hand and pointed at the screen. Sherlock was stumbling on the roof. Then he was on the ledge again, reaching out, talking on his phone.

"He is talking to John," whispered Molly. Sherlock threw the phone. And then he fell. It wasn't even a jump, he just sort of lifted his arms and dropped off the roof. Sally had to hold back a scream.

"But how did he survive Molly? How did he live?"

"I can't tell you that. I won't. He will have to tell you. But you see, this is why Sherlock has to play dead. Jim is dead, but his people are still out there, and John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson all have big targets on their heads."

"Why did Sherlock make you show this to me? Why didn't he do it himself?"

"He doesn't like to watch the video. Would you?"

"But why hasn't it been released to the public? We could clear his name, we could…."

"Make amends?" asked Molly, eyebrow raised. Sally paused.

"Oh God. I did this didn't I? Me and my stupid jealousy and…pride. I did this." She buried her face in her hands.

"Well, Anderson helped," came Sherlock's dry voice. "And Moriarty played a part too I suppose. Though it probably would have been harder for him if you hadn't tried so hard to get me arrested. And you didn't have to rub it in John's face when you were gloating."

"Sherlock!" gasped Molly.

"I'm not going to apologize. Not this time. Not to her," he retorted. 

Sally nodded. "No, don't. You're right." 

Sherlock looked surprised, but he recovered quickly. "Of course I am." 

"Can't you ever be a bit modest?" asked Molly with a little sigh. 

He scowled at her. "Adrian Beck is modest. I am sick of groveling. When I am here, I will be myself, and if I can't dress how I'd like, I'll sure as hell act however I want." Molly didn't answer. Sally could tell this was an argument they had a lot. Which was something else that was new. Sherlock didn't like to have the same argument twice. He liked to insult people and prove he was clever, but now he seemed to listen to Molly, and have enough patience with the pretty coroner to have repeat arguments. How interesting. Sherlock Holmes was slowly but surely becoming a human being. John had started it, immediately it seemed. And now Molly was rounding out the edges. And he was letting her. Sort of.

"So, Adrian Beck—that's why the driver called you Mr Beck?"

"We have to be careful. This house isn't bugged. We check it daily. Well, it probably has Mycroft's bugs, but it is his people that sweep the flat. Sherlock checks over the place when they've gone, but he never finds anything. Not after that one time," Molly explained. Sherlock smirked, but neither offered more information.

"So, Mycroft's people know that Sherlock is alive?" Molly shrugged.

"I don't know how much they know. They never go into Sherlock's room, and they always come by when I am at work. "

"And the neighbors don't notice anything odd about random people coming and going about your flat?"

"They are the neighbors," interrupted Sherlock. Frankly, Sally was surprised he had stayed out of the conversation for as long as he had. "It's the only explanation. They come and go without comment everyday. They only come around when Molly is gone. If I am here, I can hear them of course, but they never speak and they never leave any trace. The neighbors don't comment about strangers coming and going because they are the ones doing it."

"But they've lived here for ages Sherlock."

"Not ages, 5 years. They moved in around the time I met you and started spending a lot of time at the mortuary. Mycroft would have had them move in just in case I ever paid a call. Or to find information on you, in hopes of spying on me. He has people to spy on me everywhere," Sherlock sounded a bit pained. "And anyone who has contact with me."

"That sounds a bit paranoid," commented Sally.

"What, me or him? I have every reason to be paranoid. There are gunmen out there with the intention of killing those I am closest to if they ever get even an inkling that I am alive. But Mycroft never trusted me, so he's always gotten people to spy on me."

"Well, you've never really given him reason to trust you, have you," replied Sally. It wasn't a question. Sherlock shot her a dirty look.

"If I want your input I'll ask for it." Molly rubbed her temple slowly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away.

"But really. There were the drugs, and then the cases where you consistently threw yourself into impossibly dangerous situations for no real reason except your own personal kicks, alienating everyone around you, constantly getting yourself into trouble with the police…"

"Yes, thank you Ms. Donovan. Don't you ever shut up?" He was glaring at her again.

"Is there anything else she needs to know?" Molly asked, a bit nervously. Sherlock shrugged, then waved a hand in her general direction and collapsed on the couch. Molly took that to mean it was at her discretion to tell Sally anything more.

"He goes by Adrian Beck when he is in public. He calls in to the Yard with tips sometimes, and when it turns out he was correct, he, or occasionally the driver, goes to the Yard to pick up reward money, if it is offered. Adrian is working on a research project—studying criminal justice and the MO's of various serial killers—seeing if there is a link. He has followed the Moriarty-Holmes case, but hasn't a strong opinion on it, as it isn't what he is particularly interested in, and he doesn't have enough data to back up any conclusions. Um….he likes the Beatles. I don't know what else might be good to know. He is very different than Sherlock. He is pretty friendly, and keeps his negative opinions to himself." Sherlock made an annoyed sound from his spot on the couch. "If you want to say something, by all means say it," Molly told him. "Obviously, he doesn't look much like Sherlock. That was easy—hair dye, colored contacts, and some tanning. Match that with casual clothes instead of tight suits, and a pleasant personality-"

"Really Molly, I think we've said enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock was sitting up now, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Sally just looked at him, unsure how exactly she was supposed to be feeling.

"You won't say anything? You'll keep our secret?" Molly's voice was strained. "At least until he catches the people who would carry out the plan to kill everybody?" Sally paused, thinking. Slowly, she nodded. She believed the two of them. God, she believed Sherlock Holmes.

"And Molly will be in no danger of legal repercussions after this is over," said Sherlock in a rather imperious tone. It was quite clear that he was giving an order, not making a request. "There will be no consequences, she will not be harmed in any way for helping me. Her job and her life will be secure."

"Well, that isn't exactly up to me, but I will certainly do what I can." Sherlock nodded, then sat back on the couch, staring blankly into space. Molly walked Sally to the door, calling the car. As the big black car trundled around the corner, ready to whisk Sally back to her own flat, she glanced back up at Molly's home. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes.

"What have I done to you?" She whispered, sliding into the car and giving the driver her address. Which of course was a bit futile, as he already knew it. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and he as not any kind of fraud. He was still an arrogant jerk, Sally decided, but she would have to make an effort to be nicer in the future. It seemed he wasn't as much a freak as she had thought. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had a heart after all.


	2. Day at the office.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally-centric. She starts trying to work things out.  
> Ignore the stupid title.

Sally called the Yard as soon as the driver dropped her off at her flat. She told DI Dimmock that she was fine, but she wouldn't come in to give her full report till the morning. She informed him that the perps had gotten away, but she did give him a full description of all four men. It turned out that the fourth man, the one who had assaulted her in the alleyway, had already been picked up by police, and two of the other men had been found as well, using the fourth's information. So it hadn't been a total disaster.

Sally tossed and turned all night. At around 4, she gave up sleep as a lost cause, and logged on to the computer. She looked at John Watsons blog for the first time since the Hound of Baskerville's case. She watched the video Moriarty had posted, and felt her breath catch in her throat again when she read John's final blog.

"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." No doubt Sherlock would have some sort of comment about the grammar, Sally thought, a bit uncharitably, albeit likely accurately. She typed "Jim Moriarty" into the search engine. There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing that might be useful to anybody. A few articles about how Sherlock had paid the actor Richard Brook to play the part of Consulting Criminal Richard Brook, but nothing substantial.  
How was anyone fooled by this? How had _she_ been fooled by this? she wondered. So blinded by jealousy? She shook her head in disgust. There was practically nothing there, and "Richard Brook" offered almost no proof. There were a few articles about him, but nothing going back more than a few years. It was as though he had simply appeared out of nowhere. Which, as she had just learned, he had. It seemed as though Moriarty hadn't really been planning for the long run. Which meant that he hadn't planned on outliving Sherlock for long. As soon as Sherlock was dead, there really wasn't reason for him to live either. He probably hadn't intended to end it on the roof so…inelegantly—though the fact that he had brought the gun at all proved that at the very least he had considered the possibility of things not going to plan.

But, oh, it was clever. Throw a shadow on Sherlock's name, just a little bit of doubt, with just enough proof to back it up, two days later, Sherlock is dead, suicide, tantamount to a confession, and Rich Brook would disappear just afterwards. No one would go digging around into two such unlinked occurrences. No one but Sherlock, and Sherlock would be dead. Sally sighed. Sherlock had no doubt already figured that all out, but Sally wanted to reason through it anyway. She had played her part in getting Sherlock into this mess, now she would do what she could to get him out of it again. Even if she had been wrong, and he hadn't been the fake she'd believed him to be, even if maybe he wasn't such a freak, she still didn't want to be in debt to him. She had a feeling that when he came back, and she had no doubts now that he would, he wouldn't be kind or forgiving to people who had been his enemies. She was determined not to fall into that category. Plus, once she had helped him, she could go back to hating him. This thought comforted her a bit, though she had a feeling she would never despise him as strongly as she had. She hoped that he wouldn't hate her as much either.

The next morning, she arrived at the Yard, extremely tired, a bit nervous, but still resolved. "Here you go," said someone, bumping into her slightly, pressing a coffee into her hands. He swept into the yard ahead of her, leaving Sally slightly stunned on the sidewalk. The man wore a hat, had a rather bushy beard, wore sunglasses, and dressed in a long tan trench coat and jeans. Cautiously, she followed the man inside. He was talking to one of the officers, who handed him an envelope, supposedly with a check inside. The man walked brusquely out of the office, sliding his sunglasses back on, giving Sally a brief nod as he passed her. Sherlock.

"Who was that then?" she asked the officer who had given Sherlock the envelope.

"Hamish Taylor. It was the reward money he got for giving a tip on a rather big case." Sally glanced at the door. "Odd bloke that one," continued the officer. "He calls in tips every so often, comes in to collect the money if it's been offered, and leaves. He never says much, just flashes his ID, gives his name and leaves."

"What do you know about someone called Adrian Beck?"

"Oh, him, I like him. He's a cute one. He comes by me too. Ginger, gorgeous brown eyes, freckles. He's got a slight Scottish accent. God," she sighed, "I am a sucker for a Scottish accent." Sally smiled at the other officer, then walked up to DI Dimmock's office to give her report. She was a bit surprised that Sherlock had taken on two new identities. Probably more actually, if he could fool people with just the two, it was very much in character to make things as complicated as possible. He probably had four or five false identities, just to shake things up. She couldn't decide if she liked the fact that he had given her a coffee. She couldn't figure out if he was being nice, or showing off—proving that he knew she hadn't slept, but would still come in to give the report. Sally sighed. It was too complicated to try and figure out Sherlock.

She passed Lestrade's office on her way back from Dimmock's. He was bent over his desk, one hand on his face, the other drumming out a slow rhythm. He was staring at nothing. It was not uncommon to see him in this mood. Even since Sherlock had jumped off the roof at Saint Barts, Lestrade would have these moments where he just drifted away. No one knew exactly what he was thinking about, but of course, everyone had a guess. Sally was sure he was relieving that last day. This time, for the first time, she allowed herself to push open the door.

"Sir?" Lestrade jumped.

"Sorry. Sorry. What can I do for you Sally?"

"Nothing. I was actually just wondering if I could do anything for you."

"No. Nothing."

"If you're sure sir," she paused. "I just wanted to say I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. And I'm sorry I haven't said it before." She gave him a last look before leaving his office, trying to tell him with her eyes that she meant it, but mostly, he just looked a bit surprised. Lestrade hadn't been exactly cold with her since Sherlock had jumped, but all the same, their relationship had felt strained. They had definitely had more friendly conversations, before. It seemed everything was split that way—before and after. Before, Lestrade had joined them for drinks occasionally, laughing about the face Sherlock had made when he'd realized that he'd made a slight miscalculation, griping a bit at the rudeness the detective had shown them all, but mostly, when Lestrade was there, there was an underlying respect for Sherlock. Even Anderson tried not to say anything too mean about him. Lestrade had only ever joined them once Sherlock had helped them solve another case. Sally had never quite understood why Lestrade let Sherlock treat him as he did—never a kind word, never even a thank you or an appreciative glance. Only ever criticism and cruelty seemed to fall from Sherlock's lips when speaking to the Detective Inspector. And yet Sherlock had pretended to die for this man—he had been willing to take the risk of dying for a man for whom he had shown nothing but contempt. Sally didn't quite understand, but she was beginning to. She understood now what Lestrade had meant when he'd said that Sherlock was a great man, and might even be a good one someday. Well, Sally figured that someone like Sherlock would probably have good and bad days, but he had proved that his core at least, did deserve the respect that Lestrade had always paid, and Sally never had.

Anderson stopped by her desk later that morning. She was on her third cup of coffee. "Hey, are you alright? It's just, I heard what happened last night."

"I'm fine Connor, thanks for asking." She wasn't quite sure what made her do it, she could never say afterword, but she then looked him square in the eye, and asked, "How's your wife?" She had never seen Anderson look so shocked. It was surprisingly hard to keep a smirk off her face. The only person she had ever seen shut Anderson up so effectively was Sherlock Holmes. She almost shuddered to think he might be rubbing off on her already, but she managed to keep her face carefully blank, looking at Anderson, as if waiting for his answer.

"She's…fine, but…"

"Good, I'm glad. Thank you for your well wishes, but I do have a lot of work to do," she said pointedly, and began purposefully leafing through papers on her desk, moving them around and all around pretending there was something vastly important she had to do. She didn't look up until Anderson's footsteps were gone. Sally chanced a glance at Lestrade's office again. His door was closed, but she could still see him through the blinds. She glanced around the office. OK, she thought. Who would have been in a position to potentially shoot Lestrade on the day Sherlock jumped? It couldn't have been someone outside this office, a thought that frightened Sally even more than being chased around by thugs in the middle of the night. Two years ago, but not much had changed. Two people had left in the interim two years, both rather quickly and under slightly suspicious circumstances. Well, Sally had thought them a bit odd, but no one else really seemed to care. 

One was Detective Link, who had mysteriously won the lottery, even though she had never played. The other had been a man whose name she couldn't remember. He hadn't worked there long, only a few months. He'd kept to himself, and didn't make friends, but he was, to Sally's recollection, a good officer. He had clever ideas, and took orders well. But he had simply left. A memo had appeared a few days later saying that he had been transferred, but there was no information as to where he had been transferred, and none of the other departments admitted to having him working for them. Where had he sat? Where had his desk been? Sally's eyes roved over the office, trying to remember. Sherlock would have solved it by now an annoying voice in her head whispered to her. Strange how the annoying voice in her head, that doubting, nagging, critical voice that yelled at her whenever she was angry or frustrated with herself sounded exactly like Sherlock Holmes. Oh hush, she thought. He's not here, and I don't need him critiquing me inside my head as well as outside it. There! The little self argument had seemingly unlocked a memory. The officer had sat just a little ways down from her—though she hadn't been at her desk that day, she'd been with Lestrade, in his office. But from his desk, the officer would have had a perfect, straight shot into Lestrade's office. If the blinds had been cracked, like they were today, it would have been easy. The placement of the man's desk gave him a perfect vantage point into Lestrade's office, but no one would be able to see him pull the gun and shoot. Then he had disappeared….Sally quickly pulled up the personnel files of the past three years. It took nearly half an hour, but she found him. John Clements. She glanced at his credentials. He had served in the war, she noticed. A sniper. If he was the man who had been gunning for Lestrade, it was almost definite that his name was a fake. Still, if Sherlock didn't have this information, she would give him what she had. Even if he did already know about Clements, then at least he would know that she was on his side and trying to help. She printed out the relevant information, then erased her internet history, just in case.

Sally clocked out early, citing exhaustion from her ordeal the night before, and made straight for Molly Hooper's house.

"Adrian?" God it felt weird to call him that. "Adrian, I have something you might find interesting." After what seemed like hours, the door slowly opened.

"What? I thought when you left you were gone. As in, not coming back."

"Sorry to disappoint. May I come in?" Sherlock sighed, but stood aside and let her into the hallway.

"What is this oh so breaking news that you have for me Sergeant Donovan?"

"I know who was meant to kill Lestrade." She handed him the file. "His name is John Clements—at least, that is the name he gave, and he worked on my floor. He would have been in a prime position to kill Lestrade without being seen himself. Plus, he disappeared not three days after…everything happened. Said he got transferred, but there is no record of it. Might be he was giving Moriarty information the entire time he was at the Yard."

"Oh, wonderful, thanks so much for that brilliant deduction." Sally glared at Sherlock.

"I am trying to be helpful you know, there isn't a reason to…oh forget it. Look at who I'm talking to."

"Don't end sentences in prepositions, it makes you sound stupid." Sherlock was already glancing through the file. "Hmm."

"What?" Sally asked, unable to help herself.

"We've got him—found him ages ago." Sally braced herself for more scathing comments. "But we didn't know exactly what part he played in this whole scheme." He stared at the picture some more. "He was there, that day," Sherlock announced suddenly. "The whole time, I remember. He talked to you a lot. Or was standing near you anyway. Horrible pink shirt. He was there when I figured out where the children were, when we found them…." Sherlock trailed off. "What did he say to you?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't remember it was years ago!"

"Try! It might be important. Dig deep into that silly little brain and remember what he said."

"You know, people might be inclined to help you more if you didn't insult them all the time." But she obligingly closed her eyes and tried to remember. "God, I don't know, alright? It was the same old shit everyone always said about you. 'He's such a jackass isn't he, Why does he treat everyone like idiots?, Freaky how he does that, yeah? Gets everything from nothing.' Just the usual stuff."

"Yes, but all day, just talking to you? OH!"

"What?"

"He was using you Sally! Manipulating you the whole time. Oh it wasn't hard, wouldn't have taken much work—just a thought here and there—it's sort of impossible that he can do that, don't you think? No one is that clever. Uncanny how he always manages to know something even though he's got nothing to go on….Don't you see?" Sally just stared at him. "Oh God, you're slow today—come on. He knew you didn't like me, knew you already were sort of suspicious, or at least looking for a way to discredit me or embarrass me in some way. He kept planting the idea in your head that no one could possibly know what I knew without being somehow involved! Then, when I did the impossible—again, with the footprint—though you actually can get quite a lot of information from a shoe, if you just pay attention—you already had that seed of doubt, planted deep by your hatred of me, and that seed took root and grew. You got Anderson to see it your way immediately—of course you did, he hates me more than you do, and you went running off to tell Lestrade. Of course, being a good policeman, he had to come and arrest me. You planted a bit of doubt in his mind too, Sally, that's the problem with weeds, they spread, and now he's feeling guilty, isn't he? Don't answer that, I've seen him. You always hated me Sally, then someone gave you some more ammunition, and the poison spread and now it is making Lestrade sick!"

"So now it's my fault that Lestrade is miserable all the time?" Sally was quaking with fury. "Fuck you Sherlock. Just…fuck you. I am here to help, and you just…accuse me of things that I am trying to make amends for. Sorry," she corrected herself sarcastically, "for which I am trying to make amends."

"Oh please, I am not blaming you. It's Clements you see. I mean, yes, you gave him the foundation, but he chose you. He could have picked anybody—God knows enough people hate me, but he picked you to carry his…seed of doubt. That bit isn't your fault." Sherlock paced around the room for several minutes. "I am going to get this information to Mycroft. Thank you Sergeant Donovan for bringing this, I think it will be helpful." It was a clear dismissal, but Sally wasn't done with Sherlock yet.

"I think you should tell Lestrade." Sherlock froze.

"What?"

"You have to tell him you are alive. He could help you know. He really could."

"The whole point, Sally, is that no one knows. Not unless it is strictly necessary."

"And I think it is. He could help you, and it would help him too I think. With Lestrade, you would have access to police resources that I wouldn't be able to get you. He wouldn't even get in trouble for it, not if he was careful. And he would be. He'd be able to pretend that you were dead, even if he knew you weren't. I'm not recommending telling John or Mrs Hudson. They wouldn't be able to go on as they have been since you, er, died. Lestrade could. And it would help him. You just have to tell him that you don't blame him or anything, that you don't care that he doubted you, even for an instant, that you are alive and you need his help. He might even smile again." Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock?" No response. He didn't even move. Sally sighed. "Just think about it, OK?" She let herself out. Was she doing the right thing, telling Sherlock to let Lestrade in on his secret? She wasn't sure, but she hoped so. He would be a useful ally, and it would make him feel better. Sally chanced a backward glance at the flat. She hoped she had done the right thing, but more than that, she hoped Sherlock would.


	3. Expansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. This is the REAL chapter 3. Oops. I am mostly copying stuff from my fanfiction.net over to here, editing a bit as I go, and I left this chapter out.   
> So. 
> 
> Yeah, so....Lestrade finds out.

Sally nervously tapped her fingers on her desk. She hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock for more than a month. She had asked around, and neither Adrian Beck nor Hamish Taylor had called in any tips. She had seen Molly once or twice, but neither woman had done more than a brief nod in greeting.

But today was different. Today, she had arrived at work and a steaming cup of coffee was on her desk, made the way she liked it. It was from the same place Sherlock had gotten her coffee from the day after she had found out about his survival. Written on the side of the cup, where usually a name was written were the letters "O.K." She glanced at the door for about the twelfth time in five minutes.

All day she was distracted and nervous. She got virtually nothing done, constantly fidgeting, and looking over at the door. At close to 5:30, Tish, who sat adjacent to her, finally asked her what was wrong.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm just expecting someone."

"Oooh, anyone interesting?" Tish's eyes glowed, hungry for some fresh gossip.

"You have no idea," muttered Sally. "I'll bet he was just playing with me, so he could laugh at me later."

"How uncharitable," came Sherlock's drawling voice. "Have you no faith in me at all?" Sally glared for a moment, then sighed.

"More and more. D'you want me to go in with you?" Sherlock shot her a dirty look.

"I do not require a babysitter Donovan, and I'll thank you to remember it." He whirled, and stalked toward Lestrade's office. Sally immediately followed him, sliding in just as Sherlock slammed the door. He gave her another dangerous glare, but she just smirked at him. Like she was going to miss this. Lestrade looked a bit frustrated at the interruption. He had actually been getting a lot of work done.

"Donavan! What the hell are you doing? And you! You aren't supposed to be in here!" That last was directed to Sherlock.

"Sorry sir. It's important." Lestrade still looked annoyed. Sally glanced at Sherlock, who was glaring intensely at the door handle, as if trying to make it burst into flames. Sally tilted her head toward Lestrade. She could almost see Sherlock going over his decision, trying to see if this was the best idea. "You wouldn't be here if you could think of a reason not to be. Stop stalling," she told him quietly.

"Yes, thank you for your input Donovan. You can leave now," he said sarcastically. Lestrade froze. He knew that tone. And that voice. Sally gave a grin.

"Are you kidding? This is getting good."

"Out!," Sherlock opened the door and all but shoved her out of the room. Sally glared at the door for a moment, and briefly considered pressing her ear against the door before deciding it would be undignified. She settled for leaning against the door and peering in the window instead. Which, in all honesty, probably wasn't much better, but she couldn't hear through the thick wooden door, and at least she could see through the window.

Lestrade's face was pale, his hands were visibly shaking until he clenched them into fists and slid them under the desk. He looked confused, then a bit angry, then confused again. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock put up a hand to silence him, and handed him a slip of paper. He swept out of the office and gave Sally a bit of a glare before pressing a piece of paper into her hand as well.

Molly Hooper's flat.

Now.

Car will pick you up.

Of course he knew she would want to be there. She supposed it made a certain amount of sense that he wouldn't want to actually tell Lestrade in the office, after all, it was here that Lestrade would have been killed had Sherlock not jumped, and Sherlock hadn't even trusted his own car not to be somehow bugged. Though, to be fair, she wasn't sure how much the driver actually knew about Sherlock's identity.

Sherlock was through the door before Lestrade managed to propel himself out of his chair and lurch toward the door.

"That was…was it?" He asked Sally, staring at the now closed door Sherlock had stepped through just moment before. Sally glanced over at him. She showed him the note.

"He'll explain. We have to go." Lestrade didn't move. "He won't like it much if he has to wait sir. I promise he'll explain everything when we get there." She glanced over at her other co-workers. Everyone was still going about their everyday business. Lestrade was still a bit unsure how that was possible. The world around him had turned upside down, how could anything possibly still be normal.

Sally lowered her voice still further. "Sir? We really should go."

"Sir, I need to talk to you," Anderson sauntered up to them. "Sally," he added coolly.

"Hello Anderson."

"I can't talk now," said Lestrade. "I was just leaving. Sorry, pressing engagement."

"But sir,"

"Not now Anderson!" Anderson looked shocked. Sally had to hide a small smirk. Somehow Sherlock's disdain for Anderson seemed to bleed through and infect everyone else as soon as he talked to them. Funny, she hadn't noticed that before. Sally barely glanced at Anderson as she grabbed her bag and coat and followed Lestrade out the door. Anderson stared nonplussed at the two of them, files forgotten in his hands.

"That was probably a mistake sir. He's not gonna let that go."

"Probably not. Are you going to explain what the hell is going on?" Sally glanced away, and, with relief noticed a long black car coming around the corner.

"Come on." She pushed him lightly into the car. Lestrade stared at Sally.

"So, let me get this straight," he began, "Sherlock Holmes…"

"…jumped off the roof at Saint Barts two years ago and died."

"But that was…"

"Adrian Beck. He is staying with Molly Hooper. He has some answers for you."

"Sally, that man in my office—"

"Sir, I am sorry, but we cannot talk here. Trust me, I tried. When we get to Molly's, we can explain." Lestrade frowned, but didn't ask any more questions. Sally was glad, she wasn't sure she wanted to be the one who answered them anyway.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Molly Hooper's place. Sally thanked the driver and ushered Lestade inside. Molly greeted them a bit nervously at the door. The smell of Chinese food wafted from the kitchen.

"Hello," said Molly, bobbing slightly. "Come in, he wants to see you. Um, can I take your coats? Or anything?" Sally shook her head, and Lestrade didn't respond at all. "OK then. This way. Help yourself to Chinese. Oh, and we've double-checked the house today. No bugs at all. Not even Mycrofts."

Lestrade glanced toward Sally. "What was that nonsense about 'Adrian Beck' Donovan?" Sally opened her mouth to respond, but Sherlock beat her to the punch.

"A precaution Lestrade. One I am a bit surprised Donovan thought to take." He raised an eyebrow at the Sergeant. She glared back at him. She still owed him, she supposed, but she could not wait until this was over and things went back to normal. It was so much easier to hate him.

"I'm not a complete idiot, Sherlock. And I would remind you that I am trying to help." Sherlock just shrugged. He didn't comment, but she could practically hear his accusing thoughts. Yes, but your doubt, your hatred, and your lies helped get me into this mess. Trying to help now is just a pathetic way to make yourself feel better. She deepened her glare. Sherlock, who had in fact been thinking nothing of the kind, as he had almost immediately began ignoring Sally's presence after his initial comment finally did look back at her.

"And stop putting words in my mouth. I don't blame you any more. Grudges are boring." Sally's mouth dropped open. Sherlock sat down at the table next to Molly, and began picking at Chinese.

"Are you kidding me? What about all the terrible things you've ever said to me or Anderson?"

"That has nothing to do with a grudge. I just like the looks on your faces. It's entertaining to see how quickly I can piss you off. John and I…" he trailed off, before continuing, "we'd have bets. Though I guess I do hold grudges against Mycroft. But he is a special case."

"Sorry, excuse me, not following," Lestrade interrupted. "What the hell is going on here? Sherlock, how are you alive? How could you possibly have survived? I went to your funeral! This….this isn't possible."

"No, it is merely improbable," he grinned. "Once you've eliminated the impossible, what ever remains must be the truth."

"Sorry, what?"

"It's on the website. Also, it's something I like to tell Mycroft."

"But how are you alive?" Sherlock waved a hand.

"Boring. What matters is making sure everyone stays alive."

"What do you mean?"

"God, what is it like being so slow? How do you even get around?"

"Sherlock!" snapped Sally, at the same time Molly placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and shook her head. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You haven't told him anything. How could he possibly know?" 

Sherlock sighed. "Sorry," he muttered.

Sally was once again surprised by the amount of control Molly seemed to have of Sherlock.

"Moriarty framed me," began Sherlock. "He got Mycroft to tell him all the important bits of my life, and he used those to ruin me. He had a man in the police, who manipulated Donovan for a time, but especially on that last case, and she, who already doubted me and wanted to see me suffer, leapt at the opportunity to knock me down a few pegs." Sally glared furiously into her sweet and sour pork, appetite gone. The problem was, she truly believed that he didn't hold a grudge against her. He was simply stating facts, and doing it that cold, clinical, emotionless voice he always used when discussing old cases or things that bored him.

"He also had people placed around Baker Street. On the roof of Saint Barts, he told me that if I didn't kill myself and complete his story, he'd kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and John, and he already had his shooters placed. Then, he killed himself when I figured out that there must be a code to call off the shooters, so then, obviously, I had no choice but to go through with the plan I had but into effect with Molly." He leaned back in his chair, and popped a fair amount of rice into his mouth. "Since then, I've been living as Adrian Beck, for the most part. An author, doing research on various serial killers and criminal masterminds of the 20th and 21st centuries. I haven't gotten up to the famous Holmes/Moriarty case yet. The whole point of which, obviously, is so I can research Moriarty quietly, but without too much suspicion. We have been looking for his men—his top men. Though to be safe, Mycroft has agents doing most of the legwork." Sherlock stopped talking, staring at the ceiling.

"Well, what have you found?" It was Molly, not Sherlock, who answered Lestrade's question.

"We found the man who was meant to kill you with the help of Sally. The shooters on Baker Street were all members of various foreign Mafia, and not really related to Jim in particular. Oh, but we do know now that his organization was very big." Sherlock snorted.

"It was immense. Just to name a few—that serial killer cabbie, the Chinese smuggling ring, the whole mess with Irene Adler…"

"Who?"

"Never mind. Government secrets. But his reach is far wider than I'd thought. He has had a hand in almost every major crime in the past ten years, and even some of the smaller ones. And he was clever. He had hundreds of lackeys. They would answer to slightly more important lackies, who also reported up. Those people reported to three or four, what would they be called? Main bosses? But that is where we got a bit lucky. Each insignificant person in the web answered to just one person above him or her. But none of these "higher ups" knew who the others were—they only knew their own superior, and their own…employees, I suppose. But once we get to the main four men, we began to understand a bit more. Each of those four men knew, or at least had records of almost everyone else involved. We've only found two of them so far, but they have been most helpful. And both of them reported to the same man—a man called Sebastian Moran. We did some more digging, and found that, along with their immediate superior, every single person in Moriarty's net also reported to Moran. He is the highest level before Moriarty. He was the only one who ever even saw Moriarty, the only one to talk to him in person."

Lestrade sat back, trying to take it all in. Sherlock could almost see the gears turning in the DI's head.

"OK, so ignoring the impossible fact that you were dead but now it turns out you never were—you pretended to kill yourself so other people wouldn't die?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Sally felt her mouth drop open when she noticed Sherlock beginning to blush.

"Really, is that all you got out of that? Were you not listening at all? Honestly, you are worse than my skull." Lestrade instinctively looked around for the infamous skull that had for so long graced the mantelpiece at Baker Street. "It's not here," snapped Sherlock.

"So you care about people and now you are searching for the men who would see them dead?" Sherlock nodded. "And you need my help is it?"

"No. I don't need your help. I don't require anyone's help. However," he glanced at Molly, cutting off her quiet reprimand before she could give it, "your assistance would make this case go a lot quicker. Mycroft and I will give you what we can, and if you would put your men out looking for these men," Sherlock shrugged. "The more manpower the better. We have to find them without them realizing that we are onto them, which, the more of them we catch becomes harder. But you mustn't tell anyone that I am alive. If you do, you will die, and so will John, and Mrs. Hudson."

"But you've already said that Moriarty killed himself."

"And his men are loyal to him. At least Moran is, and everyone is scared of Moran. If they find out that I am alive, then they will finish the job they began. I cannot allow that to happen. You must pretend that you still believe I am dead." Sherlock gave a little wink. "Adrian Beck will still help out occasionally."

"I don't know if you know this, but I am not exactly very popular at the Yard right now. Assigning men to search for random, impossible to find crooks…no one will allow it."

"I've gotten IA to terminate their case against you."

"You did?"

"Yes. Anyway, I deleted the uncharitable bits about you in their files."

"You did what?"

"And I've had that dreadful CI fired. The one John punched. What was his name?" Lestrade opened his mouth, probably to tell Sherlock what the man's name was, but Sherlock waved him off. "I don't care. Point is, you can do basically whatever you want to again." Molly poked him with her chopstick. Sally almost choked. She did choke when Sherlock looked at Lestrade straight in the eye, and said, "Please do help. I would be grateful." Lestrade paused, then nodded.

"OK Sherlock. God help me, I'll probably lose my job over this for sure."

"No you won't, Mycroft's taken care of everything. Or at least he will. None of you will be in danger of losing your jobs, he owes me. I have work to do." And just like that, Sherlock bounded up from the table and leapt up the stairs. The other three heard the sound of his slamming door, and then, nothing.

"He does that. He talked a lot tonight though," commented Molly.

"He said 'please,'" said Sally. "He never says 'please.'"

"He thought a long time about this. Of course he said 'please.' He needed you to say 'yes' Detective Inspector. I think he needed another friend. Not me, he spends all his time with me. Not Mycoft—Sherlock still hates him, I think. He does respect you though."

"Funny, he never showed it before," muttered Sally.

"Does he need to? Sherlock cared enough to die for you, Detective Inspector, and for John and Mrs. Hudson. Actions speak louder than words sometimes, Donovan." Sally sighed, and went back to playing with her food.

"So whose idea was it to tell me? About Sherlock not being dead, I mean?"

"Mine," confessed Sally. "I only just recently found out myself, about a month ago. I thought telling you might help him out."

"It took you that long to think I might be able to help?" Lestrade sounded a bit hurt.

"It took him a month to think it over," interjected Molly. "He was really very nervous about it. He had to really think about it first. He has a lot of faith in you Detective Inspector. Otherwise he wouldn't have said anything. But I think that's why he talked so much—and why he was a bit unkind earlier. His emotions started to get the better of him and he lashed out the only way he knows how."

"Emotions?" snorted Sally. Both Lestrade and Molly fixed her with a cold look. "Sorry. I'm just not used to thinking of the frea—of Sherlock as having actual human emotions. "

"Does he have proof? That he is innocent of fraud I mean." Molly nodded.

"Would you like to see the tape?"


	4. Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, slight time-skip, mostly because I didn't feel like writing all the back and forth Sherlock did before decided to let Lestrade in on his survival.  
> But he did, and so Lestrade becomes part of their group, they go out to dinner, and run into some old friends.
> 
> THIS IS ACTUALLY CHAPTER 4. Chapter 3 involves Lestrade finding out, I miscopied. I am taking the completed work from my fanfiction.net account and putting it here, though I am editing it a bit. So if you read this one earlier, go back and read the real chapter three.  
> Also. Sorry.

Sally wasn't sure she could watch the tape again. But if Molly Hooper could watch it over and over again, so could she. Sally immediately felt a little disgusted with herself. It was her damned pride that had been partially responsible for getting them into this mess, and she was still acting in accordance to it. But even she would still re-watch the tape, even if it made her feel a bit sick.

Lestrade was quiet. His hands were folded just under his chin, elbows propped on the desk.

"I can prove that you created a completely false identity," Sherlock was saying on the screen.

"Oh just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort….Let me give you a little extra incentive. All your friends will die if you don't, " Moriarty replied.

"John,"

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There is no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."

Lestrade's eyes had closed as soon as Sherlock said his name. It was almost as though he hadn't believed Sherlock truly cared for him until he heard it from Sherlock's lips—heard the threat from Moriarty. When Sherlock stood on the roof, poised to jump, Lestrade felt his stomach clench.

"What?" he asked, as Sherlock jumped off the ledge, back onto the roof, laughing. But surely Sherlock had jumped. He was still alive, so…oh. Oh God. It had happened so long ago, but Lestrade still almost felt he could do something about it. He saw Moriarty put the gun in his mouth almost in slow motion. "Grab it," he whispered, but Sherlock was too slow. Sherlock. Was. Too. Slow. The worst part was that it proved beyond a doubt that Sherlock was human, just as capable of being to slow to connect the dots as anyone else. Only Sherlock's hesitation had cost both men their lives. Sherlock, on the tape was in shock. Lestrade could only imagine—to have that hope then have it cruelly snatched away by a madman. As Sherlock stood again on the roof, there was no longer any audio, but he spoke on the phone, holding out a hand. Then, he tossed the phone and fell. It was almost graceful.

Lestrade felt terrible for every time he had ever though of Sherlock as less than human, for every time he berated him for not caring. But he felt most especially bad for every time he had called Sherlock insane or allowed someone to call him a psychopath or a madman. Moriarty, he was the psychopath. He looked up at Molly with a fire in his eyes.

"Yes. I'll help. I'll do everything I can." Molly smiled.

"Thank you Detective Inspector."

"Oh, call me Greg."

It was soon after Lestrade came on board that they caught the third member of Moriarty's top 4. Lestrade insisted everyone go out for drinks. Mycroft wasn't invited, and Sherlock didn't want to go. He didn't see any reason to celebrate. "There is still another one out there, and Moran is the important one anyway." Molly insisted however. "Sherlock would never go out. Adrian likes people though, and he needs a break from his research occasionally too. People do need to know that Adrian Beck is out there, and they are starting to doubt his existence." Sherlock had grumbled, but eventually agreed to go, with the condition that they would leave when he said.

They had decided at the very beginning that Adrian and Molly would be a couple. It would ensure that no random men would be brought back to the flat, as it was far too dangerous to do so, and if Molly were in a relationship, it would seem odd that she never invited her boyfriend over. They didn't want to take that risk.

It had worked too—the few times Molly was asked out, it was handy to have the "oh, I have a boyfriend," excuse, although neither Molly nor Sherlock were particularly pleased about the situation. Sherlock was pretty sure that Molly had a thing for Lestrade anyway, and even if she did still have some vestiges of a crush on him the day he'd jumped, it had definitely disappeared in the interim two years he had lived with her whenever he was in London. Molly, for her part, was a bit tired of being single. She did like the comfort and security that came from being in a good relationship, and she liked dating. With Sherlock, 'dating' was not wont to happen, even as Adrian.

But she felt that it would be good to make an excursion as a couple, getting drinks with a few people from work, just to ensure that people didn't think that Adrian was made up. Sherlock was pretty sure she just wanted to go out for once, and she didn't like going out alone. He almost felt bad about that. He knew it was because of him she never went out with her friends anymore, though he told her it was fine if she did. She didn't like leaving him alone, and with good reason, he supposed. The last time she had been gone for several hours at night he had left the flat and very nearly ran into John, which had bad news written all over it.

He had seen John a few times, of course. Occasionally when he visited the mortuary if a criminal had ended up dead and he needed to see if he/she were one of Moriarty's. John always did a double take, but Sherlock made sure that he was well away by the time John's thoughts had a chance to catch up to his eyes, and then, John would realize that the hair color wasn't right, the clothes were wrong, the gait of his walk was different. Sometimes when this happened, Sherlock would turn slightly, and see John deflate a little. He hated that. He could almost see John reminding himself that Sherlock was dead, and if Molly's new boyfriend happened to look a bit like him, well, he couldn't really blame her.

John never got more than a passing glimpse of him, but Molly was still worried that he she were not at home, and Sherlock was not wrapped up in his work, he would do something stupid, like go spy on John. Sherlock appreciated the concern, but he was fairly confident that he would be able to restrain himself. But, 90% sure was not 100%, and so he was glad that Molly had foregone going out. He didn't allow himself to feel bad that he was most likely alienating her from any friends she might have. He wasn't even properly sure she had any good friends. Someone who was willing to give up Christmas to work surely wasn't very close to anyone.

But Molly wanted to go out, and Sherlock did have a sense of fairness, even if it was a bit stunted, and he recognized that Molly had sacrificed a lot to help him. He had found several unsent letters to her sister. To protect him, Molly had basically shut herself off from everyone else. So, finally, he agreed to go out with Molly, Lestrade, and Sally.

So that is how he found himself wedged into a small booth at McGrathy's Pub, with Molly next to him and facing Lestrade and Donovan, drinking a beer and poking at a rather unappetizing sandwich.

"What is even in it?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Oh come on Adrian," said Molly. "It's good. Just eat it."

"You don't know, do you?" He reluctantly prodded the sandwich with a long finger. "Look, it moved, I think it's still alive." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Why'd you get it then?"

"Well, I've never been here before, have I? Lestrade, I am not going to trust you anymore. You have terrible taste."

"No one asked your opinion Beck," was Lestrade's airy retort, as he popped the last bite into his mouth. He still found it a little odd to call Sherlock anything but his name, but he was a police officer. He'd done undercover work, and worked with undercover operatives. It was easier for him to use the pseudonym than it had been for Molly to remember to use it.

"Were you even listening when he ordered?" asked Sally.

"No," moped Sherlock. "I was busy."

"Doing what?" laughed Molly.

"Trying not to think about just how many people have used this particular glass." He held the half full glass up to the light, as if that would give him the answer. Lestrade smirked.

"How is that going for you?" Sherlock didn't answer, merely put the glass down and poked at the sandwich again. His hand leapt suddenly, and he snatched the toothpick off of Lestrade's plate. Using it and his own toothpick like chopsticks, he carefully began to dissect the sandwich.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Lestrade, exasperation and amusement both evident in his voice. Sherlock was silently cataloguing the ingredients. Then he decided that was boring, and began doing it out loud.

"Some sort of meat product, possibly roast beef, maybe chicken. Possibly dog,"

"It's roast beef!" exclaimed Lestrade, as Molly laughed and Sally tried her hardest not to do the same.

"Tomato. I think. And this lettuce is clearly struggling to spend its last few moments excreting copious amounts of something slimy."

"It's olive oil! It's good!"

"No, the olive oil is on the other side of the lettuce, with the other condiment, which is probably mustard, though I wouldn't be sure of anything here. There is no way the olive oil could have made its way around the cheese, onion and other piece of meat—salami? How can anyone eat speckled meat anyway?" Lestrade inspected the lettuce with something akin to horror. It was definitely sort of wilted. And a little bit slimy. He felt his stomach twist a little bit. "Oh, look!" said Sherlock, almost joyfully. "Is that mold on the cheese?" He pointed to a white spot in the corner. Lestrade looked a bit green, and then Sherlock bent his face close and licked it. Now all three of the others looked a bit sick.

"Are you insane?" asked Sally. Lestrade forgot his resolution not to let anyone call Sherlock crazy, because right now he was confident that the man was certifiable. Sherlock just laughed.

"Nope, just mayonnaise. Must have been some on the mustard cap or something."

"Don't do that!" breathed Molly. "You'll make someone sick." She looked a bit queasy still.

"I was proving a point."

"Oh, what point was that?" snapped Lestrade, who was still a bit put out that Sherlock was ripping his favorite restaurant a new one and tearing apart his favorite sandwich.

"Just that you all believed that this particular establishment truly was capable of serving moldy food. It has already served slimy, past due lettuce, so mold wasn't a far step. And every one of you thought it really was mold. So...isn't there somewhere that is slightly less of a health risk we can go?" Molly rolled her eyes.

"Just don't eat the sandwich then Adrian."

"Ah, so this is the famous Adrian." All four of them jumped. Somehow, Anderson had managed to get the drop on them. Molly was not going to hear the end of this one for a while. How the hell had _Anderson_ of all people managed to sneak up on them? Sherlock already looked furious with himself. Sally could almost see him cursing his need to provide entertainment for himself by proving that Lestrade truly did have a bad taste in food and restaurants. Sherlock made a mental note not to try and embarrass people as much. He doubted it would last long.

"Sorry, who are you?" he asked. He said it politely enough, but he didn't really look at Anderson, only afforded him a sort of sideways glance.

"Call me Anderson, everyone does. Why are you here?"

"I was invited, unlike some-ow!" he cut himself off when Molly pinched him. Adrian had no reason to hate Anderson. But Sherlock was sort of determined to say something that would make Anderson mad, because Anderson had dared sneak up on him. Sherlock couldn't live that down.

"Adrian, honey. Be nice," pleaded Molly, trying to remind Sherlock that he was Adrian right now. Adrian was nice to everyone, even the waitress who had brought him inedible food. Sherlock glanced over at Anderson again, but didn't offer any more information.

"Mr. Beck has just helped us solve a rather big case," said Lestrade. "He and Ms. Hooper proved invaluable in getting a dangerous criminal behind bars. It's a bit of a celebration."

"Did no one else help on this case?" sneered Anderson. It seemed that he didn't believe them.

"Why, jealous?" asked Sally. "People are busy. It happens." Anderson turned his glare on Sally.

"Careful," commented Sherlock, as Anderson opened his mouth.

"What?"

"Careful not to say something you'll regret." Sherlock took a sip of the beer. He made a slight face. "Really? Guinness?" Then he shrugged, and took a longer drink.

"What the bloody hell are you on about?"

"What?"

"Who the hell are you anyway? I don't know you from a hole in the ground."

"Adrian Beck. I'm writing a book. Doing research on the biggest serial killers of the 20th and 21st centuries. It is a very extensive book."

"Sounds fascinating," snapped Anderson, sarcastically.

"No one asked you. Why don't you leave when you are clearly not wanted?"

"Adrian!" said Molly indignantly. "I am sorry Anderson. What is wrong with you today Adrian?"

"Nothing is wrong with me Molly. I was merely pointing out that it is quite stupid to stand about when you weren't invited. Party crashing is looked down upon yes? Clearly, we are a party. As Lestrade said, we're celebrating." He said the last word like it tasted like the slimy lettuce in his uneaten sandwich. Lestrade looked a bit embarrassed.

"Sorry Anderson. I think he's hit a bit of a block with his book is all. You probably shouldn't have insulted it."

"Seriously Lestrade, who the hell is he?"

"I already told you. He phones in tips sometimes, and he is writing a book. Sally and I help him out with it occasionally."

"So you've already got yourself another freak detective? Brass won't like that."

"Is he always this smarmy?" asked Sherlock, loudly. "Please go away, I would like to eat my delicious sandwich in peace, and you are putting….your bad attitude is making me lose my appetite." Anderson glared. Lestrade gave a small shrug. Sally sat stiffly, and refused to look at him. Molly shrank back a bit against the back of the booth and then looked out the window.

"Fine. Fine. I'll leave. I don't want to talk to you lot anyway." He stormed off.

"How childish," muttered Sherlock.

"Oh right, like you are any better," griped Sally.

"How long since you stopped seeing him?"

"What?"

"Oh come on. It's obvious. He ignored you, but you acknowledged him, so you dumped him. When you interrupted he was clearly going to say something awful, his anger was practically oozing from him, so it wasn't all that long ago, and it still fresh. That means it wasn't particularly nice the way you dumped him. Then you just sort of sat there, and refused to make eye contact with him, and you were stiff and your fists were clenched. You feel sort of guilty for how things ended—also pointing to the fact that it wasn't mutual and it wasn't nice."

"Some things never change," she snapped back at him.

"Please, both of you, just stop it," sighed Lestrade. This evening was not working out the way he had planned.

Molly stiffened suddenly. "What?" asked Sherlock, turning. His face drained and he leapt up and in seconds was slamming the bathroom door behind him.

"What the hell…?" began Donovan, and then John was there, looking a bit too thin and tired, standing there looking a bit awkward, and a bit like he was regretting coming over at all.

"Erm, hi. I just saw you and, I wondered how everything was going. But um, you look busy, so, I guess I'll just go then."

"No it's fine," said Lestrade. Molly shot him a look. Sherlock would have to hide in the bathroom until John left, it seemed a bit mean to leave him there. She caught Lestrade's eye, but he looked away quickly. Oh. She supposed he needed a moment away from Sherlock—if only so Sherlock and Sally wouldn't argue. John was a welcome distraction. "We're good. We just solved a case, so, you know. After case drinks."

"Wasn't there someone else here? I could have sworn…"

"Oh, my boyfriend, Adrian. He's just popped off to the loo."

"Oh. Can I meet him? I've heard a lot about him."

"No, um. I mean…it's just that I think he isn't feeling well. He ran off so quickly," she gave a nervous giggle. "And he was talking about how awful the lettuce was." Molly was speaking to John's chest. She couldn't look him in the eye, she just couldn't. "I think the food disagreed with him." Sally couldn't repress a snort. John looked confused, but ignored it.

"How are you doing John?" asked Lestrade. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, fine," said John, a bit listlessly. "A bit tired, the clinic's been busy."

"You've lost weight," said Sally.

"Yeah, but, like I said, work's been busy."

"We might call you sometime, if that's okay," said Lestrade. "It's always useful to have a medical opinion." John shrugged.

"If I'm not too busy. It was nice seeing you. I hope to meet Adrian soon, Molly." She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. John headed to the bar. Molly buried her face in her hands.

"He says that John works all the time. Literally…all the time. He doesn't eat enough or sleep enough. He just….works. He's been on a few dates, but…he got called into work. At least, he said he did, Sherlock doesn't believe him. He thinks John just used work as an excuse to leave, and then he goes anyway, just in case they do need him. Sarah usually lets him have an hour or two. But she is worried about him too." Molly looked up at Lestrade and Sally. "Mycroft has people following John everywhere. " She pulled out her phone. Sherlock had just texted her. She glanced over at the bar, and sent a quick text back. A moment later, Sherlock hurried out of the bathroom.

"Sorry, I can't stay. That sandwich made me a bit ill I think," he announced. "It was fun though, thank you for inviting me." Molly got up and she and Sherlock quickly left the restaurant. John followed their progress out. Adrian was bent at the waist a bit, Molly leading him out the door. He barely got a glimpse of Adrian's face. Still, what he did see struck him as familiar. Every single time. He had seen Adrian in passing a few times, but had never gotten more than a glimpse of him—usually from profile. And every time, he saw Sherlock. But Sherlock was dead, and Adrian was not him. John sighed. He wished he could just get over it, but getting over Sherlock's death was impossible. He didn't want to forget him, and even though Sherlock had been gone now for the same amount of time that John had known him, it seemed that Sherlock had been in John's life for a lot longer. John stared at his drink, not even seeing it. Sherlock had been the most important thing in his life, his very best friend.

But John was wallowing, and he could almost hear Sherlock scoffing at him. "It was ages ago John, get over it."

"Not today, my friend," John whispered. He fingered his phone, itching to send a text. He looked over at the table where Lestrade and Sally still sat, talking to the waitress, who brought them a bill. Both paid for their own meals, so, not a date then. John frowned, looking at the corner table. Four little black books stood on it. Four. That meant that Adrian and Molly had paid for their own meals too. Odd behavior for a couple. John shook his head. He was beginning to think like Sherlock.

Is that such a bad thing? You don't have to forget him, but for God's sake, don't dwell on the past. John smiled a bit. His inner voice even sounded a bit like Sherlock. But it was right. Sherlock would have hated to see John dwelling on the past. He had liked adventure—even if he refused to use the word. He had loved dashing about the streets of London after one killer or other, never looking back. No, Sherlock wouldn't be moping. Sherlock would be out there doing something. Something in John knew this already it was why he worked so much. It was why he hadn't started a drinking habit or other behaviors he felt would be self-destructive. But apparently, he hadn't done enough. Somehow, just equating Adrian Beck to Sherlock was helpful. If Molly could move on, so could John Watson. Sherlock liked to have fun, so John decided he would try. He might even do the things Sherlock enjoyed—some crime solving maybe. Not experiments, he never knew what Sherlock was doing with those anyway, but he might try his hand at helping the police out from time to time. He might even take up the piano again. As far as John was concerned, the violin was Sherlock's, but he had enjoyed piano as a boy, maybe he still would. For the first time in a long time, John felt a little bubble of hope rise in his chest. Next time he had a date, he wouldn't run off in the middle of it with a bogus story of how he was needed at work. He would be engaging and attentive. He might even get laid. He had no idea where this was coming from, but he found that he didn't mind. He was sure though, that Sherlock would want this, would want John to move on. Granted, Sherlock didn't really think the same way as everyone else, but Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, and Harry were always telling him to get a life. So maybe it was time to follow their advice.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, John remembered the odd situation of the four bills, but he ignored it for the time being. It would be a while before he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, chapter four. The stuff on the tape is from the episode, I don't own anything etc etc.
> 
> Again, apologizes for OOC, or if Sherlock's deductions were simplistic or dumb. I am not very good at deductive reasoning. Reviews are good.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope no one is disappointed in John. He isn't really wallowing, I don't think. But he hasn't really tried either.


	5. Chapter 5

John was walking home from work, and he was thinking. This had happened often as of late, just walking home and thinking about just what exactly had been going wrong in his life, and why he was having trouble rejoining society. He had been doing well lately, at actually living his life. Mostly. The main problem, John supposed, was that he was bored. He had gone on a few dates with a nice girl named Cassie, but somehow she was just sort of boring, and it hadn't lasted long. After Cassie, there had been Gabrielle, but she hadn't been any more interesting than Cassie or Jeanette or whoever it was before her. Strange, they hadn't seemed boring at the time. John sighed. He decided that before, his life had been more interesting and so he'd needed a dull girlfriend. Sarah hadn't been dull, he mused, but then again, he had unfairly put her life in danger, what with being kidnapped and the fact that she had almost been skewered by a crossbow and, of course, it really wasn't fair of him to sleep at her house then rush out at a moments notice with barely a goodbye and absolutely no explanation. He'd understood when she'd broken it off with him. Now though…his life was boring again. He decided that since his life was boring, he needed to find a very interesting girl. But all the people who looked sort of interesting also looked sort of scary, and they weren't really his type anyway.

So John was feeling a bit down after breaking up with Gabrielle. He was pretty sure that he wouldn't find someone that wasn't boring, mostly because he had never met anyone whose life was as interesting as Sherlock's had been. Sometimes John walked past Molly's house on his way home from work. Not always, but sometimes. John decided that today could be one of those days, and maybe he could swing by Molly's and relieve some of those "good-old-days" and maybe explain the Irene Adler thing, because Molly had never understood how Sherlock had been able to tell whom the dead body had been from "not her face," nor why it had affected him so badly. It didn't really even matter that Irene had tricked Sherlock, though that in itself was both funny and astounding. He had heard that talking things out was healthy. He was also quite sure that his reasoning for talking it out—as a means of alleviating was not exactly what his psychiatrist meant by "talking through your pain," because he had no intention of doing that. He wanted to relive a happier time, if only for a few minutes, with someone who had lived it with him. He just needed to get it out of his system, John told himself. One last discussion about how life had been, and then he would be able to play an active part in his own life. Maybe he would try rappelling off of something very high. Maybe he would travel. Cheered by the prospect, he walked a little faster. His limp had come back a bit, but he refused to use the cane, even though his leg did often hurt. He was already planning all the things he could do with his life after talking through things with Molly when he arrived at her door.

He had been at this place several times before, but no one had ever been home and he had always felt awkward leaving a note, and he didn't really want to call her up to make a coffee date. For some reason, it was less awkward and embarrassing to just show up and act like he had been in the neighborhood and fancied a chat.

Today though, the curtain in the upstairs window of Molly's flat moved. He was sure of it. He looked intently. There, it moved again! Someone was home. Maybe it was the mysterious Adrian. His mind flashed back, and he remembered that he was somewhat suspicious of Adrian. Something about a restaurant. John shook his head. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He rang the buzzer for Molly's apartment.

"Yes? Do you have it?" came an excited voice. It was somewhat familiar.

"Sorry, what?" For a moment, there was only silence from the speaker. Then a cough.

"The pills of course. This bloody cold." There was another hacking cough, and the voice was somewhat rougher than it had been before.

"Oh, sorry. Um…no, I wasn't….that is, I wasn't here about any pills. I am a doctor though, maybe I could help anyway."

"No, no, I will just wait for my pills. Thanks."

"No, wait," cried John. "Look, is this Adrian? Can you buzz me in? Molly said to meet her here, I guess I am a bit early," lied John in sudden inspiration. If Adiran thought Molly had planned a meeting...he'd be more likely to buzz him in. There was another cough, but this one sounded a bit like Adrian was trying to cover up a laugh.

"Sorry, I really am very sick. Wouldn't want you to catch anything and pass it off to your patients. I'll tell her that I sent you off and that….who is this?"

"Um, John Watson."

"I'll tell her I sent you off. John, I'm sorry. Really, I am."

John felt a bit daft having this conversation with a speaker.

"I had sort of hoped to meet you too, we didn't get to speak before."

"Yes, and….I am sorry for that too," for a moment, neither of them spoke. John thought Adrian sounded like he was saying sorry for more than just not speaking to John, though what, he didn't know. Then, Adrian's voice came from the speaker again. "I hope that soon we'll meet face to face. I truly wish it. As soon as I am well, OK? You can come over and we'll all have dinner or something." John nodded, then remembered that Adrian couldn't see him.

"Yeah, OK. Just….tell Molly I came by."

"Yes." John glanced up at the window as he left. There was a shadow standing there, just behind the curtain, watching him leave. John could feel the mysterious Adrian's eyes on him until he could no longer see Molly's house. Even then, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched lingered. It wasn't until he arrived home and happened to glance out his own window that he saw a black car driving slowly down the street. John sighed. Did Mycroft still have men watching him? John rolled his eyes, then headed to the kitchen to make some tea, thinking about the restaurant, and the way Adrian's voice seemed familiar, and trying desperately to figure out what bothered him so much about both things.

Sherlock had been pacing. He paused every so often to glare at the pictures on his wall. It was absolutely papered with pictures, stacked in a sort of pyramid. Moriarty's face smirked at him from the top near the wall. Underneath was a sketch of Sebastian Moran. All they had to go on was the combined descriptions of the four men underneath Moran. All four of them had an X through their face. All four of them had been caught and questioned. Sherlock didn't know how Mycroft had done it, and he didn't know what Mycroft had done with the men. Nor did Sherlock particularly want to know. Underneath the four men were lots of pictures. It had gotten impossible to just put the underlings directly underneath the man they reported to, so they all became connected with strings. Most of their faces had X's over them. Sherlock was less concerned with the lackey's. All he cared about was Moran. Mycroft believed that he had a lead, so Sherlock had sent Lestrade out after it. He was hoping that Lestrade would come today with some hopeful news. At the very least a location of where Moran might be hiding. That is when the buzzer rang.

"Yes, do you have it?" Sherlock almost forgot to put on his Adrian voice. He couldn't see who was buzzing from his position in his room, which he thought was poor building planning, but no one had asked him. And Adrian waited until someone asked his opinion before giving it. Sherlock was quite bored of Adrian.

But John Watson's voice coming from the speaker almost knocked Sherlock for a loop. He made up some story about meaning the pills, throwing in a few coughs for good measure, but his mind was whirling. This was one thing he had not planned for at all. He had not expected John Watson appearing on his doorstep wanting to talk to Molly. Why hadn't he thought of this? He had watched John from the shadows quite often, but he hadn't known that John had even known where Molly lived, least of all that he might want to talk to her. John explained that Molly had asked him to come over, and Sherlock had laughed. He had mostly managed to disguise it as a cough, but he didn't think it was very convincing. Molly would never invite John over. Not when Sherlock was there. It wouldn't even occur to her to do something so dangerous. But John didn't know that, and John was assuming that Adrian wouldn't either. Probably, John figured Adrian would think that he was some work friend of Molly's that she hadn't mentioned. Sherlock would play the part.

He asked John's name. "John, I'm sorry, I really am," said Adrian, apologizing for not letting him in on grounds of not wanting him to get sick. Sherlock closed his eyes and lay his forehead on the wall. John mentioned the fact that he'd never properly met Adrian. Sherlock didn't move for a moment. "I am sorry for that too." He could feel his Adrian voice threatening to crack. He didn't say anything for a moment. He wanted to tell John something that was true for both Adrian and Sherlock. "I hope that we'll meet soon, face to face. I truly wish it." You have no idea how much. "As soon as I am well, OK? You can come over and we'll all have dinner or something." That is what people do right? I am so, so, sorry John. He couldn't help himself, he stood at the window and peered through a crack in the curtain. He knew that John could sort of see him through the curtain fabric, but he couldn't see John unless he actually looked opened the curtain a bit. He pushed a button on his phone, and the driver followed John home, long after Sherlock couldn't see him any longer. I will find him. I will find Moran. The last piece of the puzzle. Then I will go home.

When Molly came home she knew right away something was wrong. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch lightly touching her violin. He never played it, because Adrian couldn't and they couldn't risk anyone hearing, but when he was particularly stressed or upset he would take hers out and just hold it, sometimes fingering his way through a song.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Hm? Oh, nothing." He sat up and put the violin away. "Mycroft called. He's coming to dinner. Him, and Lestrade, and Donovan. Something about 'rallying the troops' or some nonsense." Molly stared at him. "I already ordered food from that new Italian place. I didn't know what people would want, so I just chose at random." Odd. Sherlock never admitted to leaving things to chance. Molly took the violin case and placed it back in its corner. That was not the reason Sherlock was upset. Usually, when he got the violin, it was for one of two reasons. One was that there was no break in the case. No one knew anything and Sherlock began getting desperate and jumpy, needing to get out of the flat. The last time that had happened Sally Donovan had found out their secret. She didn't think it was that. If it were, there would be no reason for Mycroft to call a planning meeting. Sherlock called it "dinner," and probably Mycroft had called it the same, but it was definitely a planning meeting. Possibly a war council. Molly was a bit uncertain that her house was the best place to have such a council, but she supposed that was why there would be food. A dinner party was fairly harmless. But that was not why Sherlock was upset. If it were, he would be angrier, talking quickly and furiously about the incompetence of everyone but himself, and possibly throwing something valuable. But he was quite and withdrawn, and he was making excuses.

"You saw John," she said quietly. Sherlock shrugged. She looked at his bare feet and dressing gown. "But you didn't expect to, you weren't following him." Molly's eyes widened. "He came here."

Sherlock didn't respond, which was all the answer Molly needed.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. If you want to talk I'm here, you know. You can have….I mean, I want to help."

"You have helped." His voice was so quite Molly wasn't sure he had even said anything. "It was nothing," he said louder, looking at her. "He just came by for a talk with you, he had some story about how you invited him. Adrian sent him off home—Adrian's very sick by the way. Practically on death's door. Keep it in mind. Anyway, he never even saw me, so no harm done. Anyway, best get ready for dinner. You don't want to be dressed like that when Mycroft gets here." He gave a distasteful look at her jeans and sweater combo she had worn home from work. And put some lipstick or something on, your mouth is too small." He stalked away, and slammed his door. Molly watched him go. She had learned long ago that when Sherlock was upset, he took it out on everyone and everything, doing his best to prove that he didn't care about anyone. But when he was re-using insults….that was when Molly worried. The fact that he refused to even use John's name concerned her even more. God, I hope this is over soon. She wasn't sure how much more Sherlock could take. He seemed to be slowly coming apart at the seams, and she had no way of stitching him back together again. Molly toed the couch glumly. She almost wished Moriarty was alive again, just so she could kill him for what he had done to all of their lives. She sighed, and went to go clean up the flat a bit before dinner. Obviously it wasn't something that Sherlock cared much about, so the flat was a mess. She just hoped that they caught Moran soon. If they didn't….Molly knew things would only get worse.

It seemed that Sherlock had done a better job than he had thought with his choices in picking out food. That in itself was a bit odd. It seemed that every single one of his choices was someone at the table's favorite Italian dish. It made a certain amount of sense that he knew what she and Mycroft liked, Molly supposed, Mycroft being his brother, and he having lived with her since he had jumped. Although, he almost never ate with her, so the fact that he knew that she liked the three cheese calzone best sort of astounded her. She was sure she hadn't said anything about her favorite Italian food. Food was boring, and Molly hated boring Sherlock. He wasn't kind at all when he was bored, and she always worried that if she were too dull he would do something stupid and get himself caught or revealed or something.

All the same, it was Sherlock, and you can't live with someone without picking up on a few things. And Sherlock had known her for years, had stayed with her whenever he'd been in London, and it was actually rather stupid of her to assume he wouldn't know what she liked to eat. She was mostly surprised that he cared to remember, she would have suspected that he would have…what was the word in John's blog? "deleted" the irrelevant information.

But he knew what Lestrade and Sally liked too, so Molly, for the millionth time, decided to give up trying to figure out the great Sherlock Holmes.

However good the food was, and however much each person liked it, no one was particularly hungry, and everyone was a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock sat between Molly and Lestrade, and Sally between Mycroft and Molly. Lestrade seemed a bit uncomfortable sitting next to Mycroft, and Sally was leaning a bit toward Molly, almost as if she wanted to get as far as possible from the man without being offensive. Mycroft noticed of course, but was completely unruffled as he slowly cut into his Stromboli. Sherlock had probably just looked for the fattiest thing on the menu to give to his brother, Molly reflected, as she slowly cut into her calzone. She had a bite on her fork, but the process of raising the fork to her mouth and actually eating anything was a bit beyond her at the moment. Lestrade and Sally seemed to be making a valiant effort to eat as well, but mostly they just pushed their food around their plates. Sherlock didn't even have any food, he just sat and stared at the wall over steepled fingers. Finally, Mycroft, having eaten about half of his Stromboli, put down his knife and fork.

"I believe it is time to get to the business at hand." Everyone stopped playing with their food and looked at him, the tension in the room building, and everyone tried very hard not to look at Sherlock, who hadn't even moved. "Moran is proving to be a very slippery rat indeed."

"Oh, beautiful image Mycroft," snapped Sherlock. "Please, do regale us with excuses and pretty language. I am sure we all care about the many and intricate reasons why you have failed thus far." Mycroft didn't move or speak to defend himself. Sherlock continued. "All the power of the British government and you can't even find one disgraced soldier. Well, I am so glad you are on our side brother. I can't imagine what it would be like to be faced with fighting against your incompetency."

"Sherlock…"began Lestrade.

"Oh, yes, you've been so useful too, thanks for coming through with that oh so useful information about Moran's whereabouts. I gave you good information, and you can't even follow through. At the very least a phone call explaining that he hadn't been there would have sufficed." Sherlock was out of his chair now, pacing, his voice growing louder and louder. No one moved.

Sally stared at her plate. It was obvious Sherlock was looking for a fight, but for once, she didn't feel inclined to give him one. She couldn't look at him at all, she was afraid of what she would see in his face, in his eyes. She couldn't decide which would be worse—to see tears or fury in his eyes. She almost wanted to protest—they had been trying, they'd been doing their best—but she could almost hear his sarcastic remark that a trained monkey could do better, provided it hadn't been trained by Scotland Yard. Finally, Mycroft spoke, cold and low.

"And what, dear brother, would you suggest?"

"We need to draw him out. Make him come to us, because obviously trying to find him isn't working."

"And how will we make him come to us?" Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, as if gauging how his audience would react to what he was going to say next.

"We tell everyone that I am alive."

"What?" The response was unanimous and instantaneous. Everyone began talking at once.

"Sherlock," protested Lestrade, "we have just gone through all of this to keep that a secret. How can you ask us to jeopardize that now, when we are so close? It's insanity."

"It'll get people killed," interjected Sally. "Wasn't that the point of pretending to be dead? So that no one would die?"

"If this is because of what happened today Sherlock, you can't do that. I know your upset about John, but this isn't how to solve things it'll make things worse," said Molly. Mycroft was silent. Sherlock colored slightly, whether from frustration or embarrassment from Molly's statement it was hard to tell.

"Are you all really that slow? My God, how tedious. I'm not saying we stage a press conference. We simply tell people that I am alive. Start a rumor. Well, expand the rumors, I've heard one or two already that I'm still around. 'So and so saw Sherlock Holmes sneaking out of Scotland Yard with a big hat'—they'll believe that, people like me in a hat—or 'so and so saw Sherlock Holmes ducking into a cab.' 'It was a closed casket funeral, who's to say he really died?' Figure it out. Plant enough suspicion, get people talking about what happened, find people who have never stopped believe I survived somehow—"

"Those nutters who write 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' and 'Moriarty was Real' all over everything?" Lestrade scoffed. "Spend half my time chasing down vandals who decide it's brilliant to do it in paint," he grumbled.

"Look, if we can generate enough questions—and come up with a place that I have been 'seen' the most, we can draw him out. It is unlikely that he will just kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade without checking the rumors out for himself—but he will have to check them out. He is Moriarty's man through and through, and he has probably considered the possibility I survived anyway, at least at one point he must have considered it. He was Moriarty's right hand man, if what we have been told is true, and Moriarty would not have a foolish or stupid second in command. It would be someone that he felt was….well, not an equal, he didn't think he had those…but at the very least someone who was a cut above the rest. So we know he is clever. But he is also a soldier, so even if he is a bad soldier, he will follow some sort of protocol. So he will investigate the rumors first. I don't know about his morality, except that he obviously has a rather lax code of morals. But, as a soldier, without someone above him, he will be less likely to just kill people. He will investigate the rumors first, and then he will kill…the intended targets. But we can get to him first. It shouldn't take long. A few weeks at the longest."

"And what if you're wrong Sherlock? It wouldn't be the first time. Remember the sugar thing at Baskerville?" Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

"He shouldn't have told you about that and the stakes are significantly higher this time. I have thought about this carefully and for a long time. I know what I am doing."

"But the Detective Inspector makes a good point," said Mycroft. "What if you are wrong? What if he just goes and kills everyone without checking the validity of these rumors himself? Are you sure you have thought this through? Or is this plan the result of seeing John today?" Lestrade looked blank for a moment, then his eyes widened. Sally felt her mouth drop open. She closed it almost immediately, because if she didn't Sherlock was sure to make a comment, but her shock remained etched all over her face.

"Actually, Mycroft, dear, I have been thinking about this for some time. It has nothing to do with…with his visit. And because I know what you are going to say next, it also has nothing to do with the fact that I've been feeling pretty useless just sitting around the flat all day since _someone_ won't let me leave to do my own investigations anymore, because _someone_ thinks his men can do better.. I get out, I give the police tips on various petty crimes, I do research on the people in Moriarty's web. It's dull, mostly. I have time to think, to plan. This is something I have been thinking about for a while." Molly twisted her napkin in her lap. Sherlock still wasn't saying John's name, and that was concerning her more and more. Clearly, the doctors visit had bothered Sherlock even more than she had originally thought.

"I am just a bit concerned that it is your ego talking, and you have realized that people are forgetting Sherlock Holmes—aside from the aforementioned 'nutters' and you want people to be thinking about you again because your ego cannot handle being forgotten." Sherlock looked dangerously close to hitting Mycroft.

"This is so much bigger than my ego Mycroft." Sally swallowed. She had never heard so much venom put into one word before, not even when Sherlock had to interact directly with Anderson. "And I never cared what the commonwealth thought of me. Of course I would like things to go back to the way they were. But first and foremost is that no one else dies. Every second Moran is out there is another second someone I care about is in danger. And if it works, and John hates me forever and refuses to see me, then at least he is safe and Moran is in prison. If it doesn't work, then Moran won't outlive his targets for long, and I won't…." Sherlock stopped. Molly felt her heart leap to her throat. True, he had finally said John's name, but he was obviously not in control any longer, and he was coming dangerously close to threatening suicide. Sherlock took a deep breath. "But it will work. I have thought about it for months. I have gone over every possible scenario. It will work." Molly ground her teeth slightly, in an effort not to cry or do something that might embarrass Sherlock even more than he was already embarrassed. She could hear the desperation in his voice, and the unspoken 'It has to.'

"I can see where it would work," commented Mycroft.

"What?" cried Sally.

"Obviously, we would increase security on the potential targets, but I can see how Sherlock's plan would be effective. And I do not believe that he would suggest this lightly. You were waiting for news, were you not, about Moran's location?"

"I had thought I would know by now," admitted Sherlock. "But this is truly the only course of action I can see available to me."

"This is insanity. He will kill…" started Sally.

"I have calculated the risks!" shouted Sherlock.

"And it could work," snapped Mycroft. "Sit down Sherlock, and stop yelling. Ms. Donovan is merely concerned. I think that this plan has merit. I do not believe you would suggest it lightly. I will increase security on Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and of course John Watson."

"Wait, have we actually agreed to this? I thought it was still under debate?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock glared at him. "It is my life in danger here. Shouldn't I have some say in it?" This bit of logic had Sherlock silent for a moment. Then, he decided that getting offended was the best option.

"Do you really think that I would throw your life away so easily? That I wouldn't have thought of all the possible possibilities before coming to this conclusion? I did not come to this decision lightly, and it isn't just your life in the balance Lestrade. But this is idiotic even for you. You truly think I would come up with a plan that ends with you dead?"

"Well, no, not on purpose," began Lestrade. He stopped. Sherlock had already proven that he was willing to die for him. Before, he would have laid down money that the only person Sherlock cared about even a little was John Watson. But he had already seen that was untrue. He cared for Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and even him, though Sherlock was unable to show it. "No, I don't think you would come up with a plan that would get me killed. But Sherlock, things have not always gone according to plan, you have to admit that."

"Yes. I have made provisions. You have to trust me. It will work." 

Lestrade sighed. "So, what then? We go around, you in your various disguises, and tell people—'hey, remember that detective Sherlock Holmes? The one who is meant to be dead? Well, he's not!' No one will believe it."

"Yes, they will. Because someone will catch a glimpse of me. A bad photograph, one that could definitely be me trying not to be seen, will be put in the paper. And people will talk. They'll believe anything if it is in the paper." He said the last part bitterly.

"OK. I can see it working," said Lestrade slowly. Sally made an uncomfortable noise in the back of her throat.

"Are you sure Detective…er….I mean, Greg? It is an awfully big risk," said Molly. Sherlock sent her a dirty look.

"Yes. God help me, Sherlock, I trust you. And I don't think your brother would O.K. a plan that he thought would get innocent people killed."

"You put too much faith in Mycroft," muttered Sherlock. Mycroft looked away, but didn't try to defend himself. He would be making up his mistakes to Sherlock for the rest of his life. Or at least, until Sherlock stopped making him apologize. So, basically, never. Sherlock did not forget and forgive easily.

Sally still felt a bit uncomfortable with the plan. "Sherlock, please. No offence, but people's lives are at stake. Some concern…."

"I have thought it through, I won't say it again. I do not relish sounding like a broken record."

"Sally, it's fine. I think it will work," said Lestrade. Sally still looked a bit doubtful. But she finally nodded.

"Fine. What if he doesn't show up at all?"

"He will. With rumors swirling about—if you were to care so deeply for someone that you would follow their orders even after they are not around to make sure you follow through, and it is clear that Moran has continued following Moriarty's orders, you would follow up on any rumor that maybe the last mission did not go as planned. He will be careful. He knows he is being tracked down. That is why Mycroft and Lestrade can have nothing to do with spreading these rumors. You, me and Molly will have to start them off." He gave a grin. "It should be fun."


	6. Spreading the word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. There is a bit of a case in this chapter. Sorry if it sucks.  
> The plan from last chapter is being implemented.  
> Some people put some things together.  
> There are a few OC's in this chapter.

Sherlock was everywhere. John wasn't sure what to make of it. At first, it was just the posters. Then the graffiti. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." 

The first time he saw one, it made his throat clench up and his chest go all tight. But then, suddenly, they were everywhere. _Where were you before?_ he asked silently. _Where were you when he was being slammed in the papers?_ Fat lot of good they were now that he was dead. After a while though, he grew to like them. They wouldn't have had time to have any sort of movement before, it had only been about two days total after all, and people got slammed in the press all the time. They probably figured it would pass, and if it didn't, they'd still have time. There was no reason to protest Sherlock's bad treatment by the media. Not publicly. But then he died, and it was as though Christmas had come early for the papers, and so the opposing groups had risen. It was all anonymous, John had never seen anyone putting up a poster or spray painting a wall or chalking a sidewalk. The messages just appeared. And they began giving him small thrills when he saw them. He wasn't alone after all. But now…

For the past few weeks, people had saying that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he'd been seen. People were quite positive of this fact, saying that he had faked his death, but now he was back in town, ready to start up his business again. At least three different people, all of them strangers, had approached John in the street, telling him that "You know that detective, Sherlock Holmes? The one what died? He isn't dead. My sisters friend saw him near the eye the other day, swears up and down she did" and similar stories. He'd heard several people discussing it too, on the street. Always in a different part of London, always wearing something different, never seen by the one passing the story on, but London was positively buzzing. These people didn't know John, hadn't known Sherlock, but he didn't care. It made him furious. Who the hell were they to talk about Sherlock that way? They hadn't seen the body. They hadn't seen…They hadn't been there when…

So John was angry. And now that Sherlock was back in the news, back on everyone's lips, it was like the wound had been torn back open, after it was half healed, making the pain of it even worse.

He was at work, of course he was, he was always at work these days, when Sarah poked her head in. "Hey John."

"Sarah, hi. What's up?"

"I wanted to know if you'd heard? About Sherlock?" John glared. "I'm not saying it's true John, but I did want you to hear it from someone you knew first. Apparently, I'm too late. But it was in the paper today. The rumors."

"They don't know anything. I saw him Sarah. These people…there is no reason for this...this ridiculous….it's cruel. And wrong." Sarah nodded.

"I'm sorry John."

"Wait, Sarah, who told you anyway? Did you find out from the paper?"

"No, Steffie told me." Steffie was one of the new receptionists.

"How'd she hear it?"

"It's complicated. I think she said she'd heard it off her brothers girlfriend's brother. Or his friend or cousin or something. He's a tech at the mortuary at St. Barts. One of the morticians told him. She said it was Megan or Mellie or something."

"Molly?" John suggested.

Sarah shrugged. "I don't know. It was a complicated trail. I don't know how accurate it was." She smiled sadly. "I'm truly sorry for all this John. It isn't fair to you to put you through it all again. If you need to talk, you know where to find me." She left.

John sat back in his chair, frowning. Why the hell would Molly be telling people Sherlock was alive? It didn't make any sense. He grabbed his coat. He was going to pay a visit to St. Bart's mortuary.

***Meanwhile, across London in a cheap hotel***

Sally was uncomfortable. Sherlock was standing next to her, which was uncomfortable in and of itself, but they were at a crime scene, the site of a murder. The only reason he was there was because he had been at the Yard when the call had come in, and he had insisted on coming with her. He was in his Adrian Beck persona—brown contacts, freshly re-dyed ginger hair, slight stubble, jeans, tennis shoes, and a windbreaker. He still didn't look like himself, and Adrian stood entirely differently than Sherlock did. She was still amazed at Sherlock's ability to act like a normal human begin, mostly, as Adrian Beck.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Anderson had just seen Sher….Adrian.

"Research," he said quickly, but in a tone that still seemed to scream fuck off. He still had no patience for Anderson.

"He was already at the Yard when the call came in. He asked to come for his book, and Lestrade said yes," said Sally.

"So, what happened?" Sherlock asked, as naturally as possible. One of the officers that had been the first response glanced at Sally, who nodded for him to continue. Sherlock had his notepad out, every inch the interested author, and stared expectantly at the officer.

The officer began reading off of his report. "We were already here. Robbery in the row behind this one. We heard shots, told the family to call the Yard. We radioed it in as well of course, and ran over here. Man was dead, two gunshots to the chest. No sign of the gunman or the weapon. No sign of anything stolen. No family." Sherlock peered around the crime scene. There was a bed in on corner of the room. A few feet away was a kitchen table with two chairs. Across from the kitchenette, was a fridge, a counter. There was an armchair next to a window perpendicular to the bed, facing a television set. The dead man was being zipped into the body bag. The ceiling…he saw it immediately. The ceiling was made out of the tiles that when pushed, are very easily moved, as is fairly common in cheap motels.

"Sergeant Donovan. Can I ask you a question?" Sally, who had been doing a secondary search for any weapon, walked over. He lowered his voice. "They didn't see him leave." She shrugged.

"He probably ran away. People do you know, after they've killed someone." He glared at her.

"Don't get snarky." He gave the ceiling a significant glance.

"What…" she followed his eyes. Her own eyes widened. "You think he never left," she whispered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her.

"Thank you for explaining," he said, louder. Sally walked over to DI Jemman.

"Sir, I was thinking. If he had run off, the officers would have noticed, they would have seen him running away at least. What if he never left the room?"

"In case you haven't noticed Donovan, it's a bit small in here," he said impatiently. Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, she looked up at the ceiling. He didn't seem to get it, so she pointed. He rolled his eyes. Sally gave Sherlock a look—what now? He looked exasperated, and jerked his chin toward the ceiling tile in question. It could have been taken as a questioning motion, but she knew that he was saying 'take care of it.' Sally wasn't sure that it was a good thing that she could read Sherlock as well as she could by this point. She sighed. If he was wrong and she lost her job over this…Sally grabbed one of the crappy kitchen chairs and stood under the tile that Sherlock had indicated. She swung it upward, smashing it into the tile. It snapped in half, falling to the floor. As did the young man that had been hiding there. She stepped backward, choking on plaster, and almost stepped on Sherlock's foot, as he had moved forward without her noticing. "He started on the bed. Crawled toward the middle of the room when the tile started buckling. He stopped just as the police entered the room." DI Jemman stared at the man lying curled up on the floor. The gun had skittered away from him, landing somewhere near Sherlock's feet. He kicked it away from the shooter. The man burst into tears.

"Please," he begged, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Alright, get him out of here," snapped Jemman. "Donovan, I'll expect your report on exactly how you knew how to look there. Someone get that body down to the morgue." Sherlock touched Sally's wrist.

"I'll take care of it sir," she said, ignoring the furious look Anderson shot their way when Sherlock touched her.

"Since when do you take bodies to the morgue?"

"Since Adrian is shadowing me today. He wants to get the full experience of what happens after a crime." Anderson didn't look like he believed her. She ignored him. Surprisingly, so did Sherlock.

***At the Morgue***

"Molly, I need to speak with you." Molly glanced up at John. He did not look pleased. Oh dear, she thought. Which was probably an understatement.

"Now? I'm expecting a body to come in here any second John."

"Yes," he replied firmly. "Now." Molly sighed, and put down her chart. "Are you telling people that Sherlock is alive?" Molly froze. Shit. Sherlock hadn't covered this. What was she supposed to do if John asked her about Sherlock. About the rumors. You have to lie said the cold voice in the back of her mind, the voice that sounded like Sherlock. But she didn't like lying. She was tired of it.

"John," she said carefully, "I don't know if you know this, but…I was the one who did the post mortem. On Sherlock." He hadn't known that.

"And?"

"I'm sorry John. If you don't believe me, it's all in the paperwork. But let me ask you something." And the BAFTA goes to' she thought; she frowned at him, the hurt obvious in her eyes, "He was my friend too. What kind of person do you think I am that I would spread lies about him being alive? Do you have that low of an opinion of me?" She saw the shock register on his face. He hadn't thought of it like that.

"Sorry Molly. I…sorry. The story in the paper got me all…and Sarah said that a tech here at the morgue heard it from you." Molly shrugged. She had told the tech. That was true. She glanced down, glaring at the floor. If it looked like she was holding back tears it's because she was. Molly Hooper, she thought, you have been spending too much time with Sherlock Holmes. It didn't matter that technically she hadn't lied to John. She had never lied about Sherlock being alive. She'd lied about his death, but that hadn't been John's question. And now he felt bad, and she felt terrible for making him feel guilty. Of all of them, John deserved it the least.

"Sorry," he said again. "I'll just, leave now." He turned and headed out of the mortuary. He walked almost straight into Sally Donovan and Adrian Beck who were pushing in a wheeled stretcher with a body bag on it.

It was the first real look he had ever gotten of Adrian, the first time he'd seen him up close. Upon seeing John, he froze, and stared at him a moment, before coldly pushing past him without even a second glance. John pushed the thought that he looked almost identical to Sherlock out of his head as fast as it had entered. You are just out of sorts because of the papers and the rumors. Stop it. He instructed himself. Usually, he listened to himself, but this time a small part of his brain grumbled and muttered, and refused to let go of the idea. John decided to go back to the clinic. He would force the idea out of his mind with work.

Sherlock, Molly, and Sally stood around the body. "Adrian," began Molly. Sally was still a bit astonished at how well Molly could pretend. Granted, she had been doing it for almost three years, but Sally had never thought of Molly as particularly bright. Which was a bit unfair of her, she supposed. Molly was a pathologist, after all. She'd gone to medical school. She'd done well. It was probably because Molly was unassuming and quiet and a bit nervous, that Sally didn't think much of her. Still, it had been unfair. She made a mental note to behave a little more kindly to the other woman in future.

"Not important," snapped Sherlock, cutting her off. Sally decided to break the tension by getting back to the matter at hand. They could discuss John later.

"So spill. Why did you want in on this? It seems pretty obvious how the guy died." Molly unzipped the body bag.

"Obviously. I am not interested in how he died. I am more interested in the why. Though I think I have worked it out." Molly and Sally shared a glance.

"Well…what then?" asked Molly.

"Meet Eli Robbins," he said, gesturing at the body.

"You know who this is? And you didn't say?" Sally was angry.

He gave her a withering glare. "And how was I supposed to explain how I knew who he was? Adrian isn't involved. Eli was a middling member of Moriarty's web. He did however have direct contact with Moran. He was supposed to be under protection still. Which is a euphemism for Mycroft was supposed to be keeping tabs on him. So this was a hit."

"A hit," said Sally, incredulous. "Really. And how do you figure that? They think it's either passion or convenience." By 'they' she meant the police officers in charge of the case. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on. Think for a second. Nothing was stolen—there was nothing on the shooter, so it wasn't a robbery. Robbins didn't walk in on the man stealing something or breaking in, or doing anything of the sort. So it wasn't a killing of convenience, of Robbins being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not a crime of passion. The killer wouldn't have hidden for one thing, he would have taken his chances and run. Or killed himself. Plus, Robbins obviously has no family or significant other. The only thing that makes any sense at all is that he talked. So Moran has something over the killer. He's married, so maybe Moran threatened his wife or children, because he obviously isn't a professional killer. That is clear by the frankly alarming positioning of the shots, and the fact that he didn't have an escape route planned out, hadn't cased the surrounding area, and hence didn't know the police were around, and the fact that he panicked and thought he could hide out in the ceiling."

"How could you possibly know that Robbins wasn't involved in some sort or affair with the killer's wife?" Sally didn't question the idea the man was married, she'd seen the ring. She wasn't as unobservant as Sherlock made her out to be. Plus, Sherlock was clearly freaked out by running into John. Just this once she would allow him to belittle her.

"Please. Did you even look at him?" Here we go, thought Sally. "He is grossly overweight, poorly shaved. There is the remains of last nights chicken dinner—see the grease—in his double chin. His clothes are stained and mismatched, his hair is greasy; no one with a lover would ever allow themselves to look so shabby. Especially since it is generally in a motel were such affairs take place. Often, affairs tend to be spur of the moment meetings, whenever both parties have time to participate, even just for a few minutes--which means you should always look your best—you should know that Sally." She flushed, partially with embarrassment, partially with anger. She definitely should have seen that one coming. But Sherlock was coming out of his…whatever it was that he had fallen into when he had seen John up close, and John had looked right back at him, for the first time in years. "Also, he had a heart problem. Clubbing on the fingers. He worked at a convenience store or at a department store." He knew that from his research. "He didn't get much excitement. An affair would have been much too intense for him. All he did was fence stolen property for Moriarty, and that in a more managerial capacity, making sure the right people got the right information.

Eventually, Mycroft and I caught up to him, and he gave us the information. And Mycroft is going to have to be much more vigilant, if we don't want any more murders. Robbins shouldn't have been able to escape Mycroft's watch at all. Anyway, obviously Moran in some way forced our killer's hand."

"So is Moran here, now then?" asked Molly. "Did it work?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Or he might be working from afar. All that I know for sure right now is that you should probably check on the family of our shooter. And that if Mycroft lets any more people slip through his fingers we are going to have a lot more deaths and unfortunate people implicated in the crimes."

"So what now?"

"Keep spreading the word. It was in the paper this morning. That's good. The more people talking about it the better. We need to draw Moran into the open. Soon, there will have to be a real sighting, not just a fabricated one. We might give it to Lestrade. For now, Molly, I'll let you do your job. I'll see you tonight. Sally, we've got work to do. Go back to the Yard via the long way. Molly, call me if you find anything odd."

***Bus Stop***

Mrs. Emily Trotta was caught up short by the young man at the bus stop. He was glaring rather angrily at a poster. It was one of the 'I Believe in Sherlock' posters. She wasn't sure why he seemed to wish to light the paper on fire, when he commented, "I don't see why they had to use a picture with that hat. It's a bloody awful picture. And it is a frankly ridiculous hat." She started, she hadn't thought he'd noticed her. He sent her a glance, then returned to the picture. "I mean, there are plenty of other pictures, why couldn't they have used one of them? The papers managed to find other pictures."

"I'd imagine it's because this one is the most iconic dear," she replied. He looked at her again, a bit confused, as though he hadn't actually expected her to answer.

"Yes well," he said, "it doesn't change the fact that it is an appalling hat. I mean, who even invented a deer stalker? It's an ear hat. And how could you stalk a deer in that anyway? They'd see it a mile off, and dash off laughing at how absurd you look." Obviously they wouldn't really, but almost three years of being Adrian and an even longer time spent hating the hat had left Sherlock a bit out of sorts and not at all himself. Seeing John hadn't helped, though getting to put down Sally had been fun. Mrs. Trotta smiled.

"My brother bought a deerstalker because of that man," she said.

"Then your brother has no taste," replied Sherlock, bluntly.

"No, that's true. You're not a part of the movement then?" He blinked.

"The movement?"

"The 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement." He rolled his eyes. He hadn't considered it a movement, just a bunch of nutters using his name to vandalize things.

"It's not a movement. It is a small group of petty vandals motivated by either good intentions or a wish to be infamous, by associating themselves with a rather disgraced famous person. They stay in the shadows, but eventually, they'll come out into the open and try and get what credit they believe is due them."

"So you believed the papers when they said he was a fraud?" She sounded disapproving. Sherlock looked at her again, and this time, didn't look away.

"I didn't say that. I just don't know that random posters and spray paint on walls is how you should go about spreading a message. It took nearly three years for anyone to do enough research to put some doubt on the idea he was a fraud, or at least, for that research to make it into the papers. Seems to me a better option would have been to try and get that information out much faster. And I don't know who these people are trying to tell they believe in him anyway. He jumped off a building, so what's the point?"

"Well," she said, her eyes sparkling, "I suppose some felt a bit guilty. Or maybe they wanted his family to know that they supported them. And it isn't such a small number of people either, there are thousands of people. Even people in America, the case went…viral, I believe the term is, a year or so back. The teenagers really went to work on it. And then of course, the people he helped would believe in him. Though haven't you heard? The rumor is he survived." Sherlock grinned. He had gotten better at grinning on command as Adrian, and he looked less like a skeleton when he did so now.

"So I've heard. Are you a member of this…'movement' then?" She paused, then nodded.

"He saved my family." Sherlock frowned, he didn't remember this lady at all. He was quite sure he had never met her.

"Oh? How?"

"That killer, a while back, who went about killing widows and widowers who had remarried, because he thought it was wrong to marry twice, and thus those who had done it must pay the price?" Sherlock nodded. He remembered that case. No connection between any of the deaths—not age, sex, religion—except the fact that all of them had been remarried. "Remember that list he had, of people he was going to go after?" He nodded again. The man had gotten the list from the courthouse, cross referenced with newspaper obituaries. The list had creeped John out, he recalled, and had been rather horrified that Sherlock had merely thought it organized, though he had been disappointed that he had left it out in the open the way he did. "My brother was the next name on that list. His wife had died nearly twenty years previous, and was only just getting remarried, but the killer was going to kill him just the same. So I believe that Sherlock Holmes saved my family, and I do not believe he was a fraud of any kind." Her eyes shone. "I wish I could tell him the gratitude I feel. Do you think he is alive? Like the papers say?" Sherlock gave her another grin, a genuine one this time.

"I think it's quite possible that he's alive as you or me," he replied jauntily, and turned and sauntered off. He hadn't been waiting for a bus anyway, he'd just gotten a bit distracted by the poster.

Emily Trotta watched the young man walk off. He had seemed mighty pleased with himself as he'd left—had he been making fun of her? Young people today could be so disrespectful. She looked at the poster for real. It was the best quality ones she'd seen. She paused. She looked at the poster again, and at the receding back of the young man. She pulled the newspaper clipping out of her bag. They had used the deerstalker hat as well, but also a photo of Sherlock Holmes without the hat. She glanced back at the rapidly disappearing man, managing to catch one last glimpse of him, profile, just as he rounded a corner, still smiling to himself, though it had turned into more of a smirk by that point. She may be older than she cared to admit in public, but she still had almost better than perfect eyesight. She studied the newspaper picture as well as the picture on the poster again. When the bus trundled around the corner, she got on and took a seat, closed her eyes and pictured the young man again in her minds eye. Then she smiled. Sherlock Holmes was alive. And she had met him.

***Clinic***

John had gone back to the clinic after he had left the morgue. He'd already had two patients, one who had a cold, and the other had turned out to be pregnant. He sighed, preparing himself for the next patient.

"Ah, Mrs. Trotta, how are you today?" She smiled at him.

"Quite fine Doctor Watson. More than fine now."

"And how's the knee?"

"Oh, a bit still, but nothing too bad." She saw the paper in the bin.

Holmes Alive!

it proclaimed. John followed her glance and scowled. "Wasn't it bad enough the first time they made up lies about him?"

"Oh, it's not a lie," she said pleasantly. "He's alive. One of the ladies in the bridge club said that her niece told her she'd seen him. An honest girl."

"She saw someone that looked like him." John didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Maybe dear. But I saw him today. Just before I got on the bus to come here. Nice man. Bit gruff." John almost laughed.

"Mrs. Trotta, I promise you, if the man you met was nice, it wasn't Sherlock Holmes." She glared at him.

"I saw him. Right next to one of those posters. He was quite cross about it, because he said they'd used a terrible picture. Went on for quite a while about how much he hated the hat. He had some very colorful ways to describe it," she chuckled. "He also thought the 'I Believe in Sherlock' movement to be attention seeking, and thought that if it were anything else, people would have tried to clear his name ages ago. Thought people were a bit too slow on the uptake with finding holes in the story I suppose."

"Mrs. Trotta, I think you just ran into someone who happened to look a bit like him and got excited what with the rumors and all," he said firmly.

"Don't you treat me like I'm insane, Doctor," she said, shaking her finger at him. "I was a police sketch artist for years, before they started doing everything with computers. I notice the details about people. The things they can't change—bone structure, shape of the eyes, the lips. Oh, his hair was a distinctive ginger, and whoever did it made it look very natural, but when you've dyed your hair as much as I have, you know when someone's hair color is false. He is in disguise, that much is certain, ginger, brown eyes, an awful windbreaker, instead of that nice coat he was always in, in the pictures before, but it was him." She laughed, thinking of his diatribe about the hat.

"Why don't you let me in on the joke?"

"Just thinking about what he called that hat. 'An ear hat' he said. I don't think I have ever heard such venom in two words describing a piece of clothing before, why Doctor Watson, what's wrong?" for John had gone deathly pale and had to sit down.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Trotta. I…I can't do this. I'll send someone else in to finish." He hurried out of the room, choked something or other to Sarah about sending someone in to Mrs. Trotta, and stumbled into his office. He locked the door, and slumped on the floor in front of it. Was it possible? He had never heard someone else call a deerstalker an 'ear hat' before. And her description…his mind flashed back to Adrian Beck, and then to the four checks at the restaurant that one night. Adrian and Molly were dating, living together, at least sometimes…so why had he not paid for her meal? Molly wasn't the type to insist on paying for her own meal, not if a date was willing to do it for her. And there had been four checks…But she had said that she had done to post mortem, she had said she wouldn't spread lies, and she was right, she wasn't the time of person who would say Sherlock was alive if it weren't true…So what if it was. It was true, and Molly knew. She wasn't spreading lies that Sherlock was alive. She was telling people the truth. But why deny it? The voice that he didn't want to listen to was back. Because Sherlock told her to. He doesn't want you to know. God. But why? If Sherlock had been alive this whole time, and Molly had known—suddenly her aversion to him made more sense, a secret like that would have been hard to keep, and even more so in front of John, especially for an empathetic person like Molly—why did Sherlock not trust him? Why wasn't he allowed to know that Sherlock wasn't dead? He didn't know. He didn't know and it hurt. It hurt worse than when Sherlock had been dead.

***Scotland Yard***

Sally was pleased. She had spoken with nine people on her way back to the Yard. Of those nine, three of them were already involved with the 'I Believe in Sherlock' people, two of them had already heard, two of them hadn't, but had believed Sherlock a fraud, but decided that they'd check into it further, and one had told her that Sherlock was alive. Then, she had gotten onto a bus, and talked to the man next to her about it, and his voice had been so loud and carrying, that soon the entire bus had been talking about it.


	7. Chapter 7

John cancelled the rest of his appointments and went back to the flat. He wanted to talk to Molly again, but he was terrified of what she would tell him. What if he was insane and just making things up because he wanted so desperately for them to be true? It certainly seemed feasible. He felt like he had been warped back to just after Sherlock had jumped off the building. He didn't know how to feel. And he had never been so lost or alone.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

-We found SM. GL

-Where?-

-Mirror Inn, rm 202. On Kings St.-

-On my way. No sirens, nothing to tip him off-

Sherlock pocketed the phone, and hailed a cab. He had the driver drop him off about a block away from the Inn, and took the back streets to the Service Entrance. He slipped inside as a frustrated maintenance man stormed out, hitting the wall before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaking hands. Sherlock barely noticed, except to note that he wanted a cigarette quite badly. However, it could wait. He wouldn't be surprised if Moran had some sort of surveillance of the street and corridors. He didn't look up, just kept his head down, walking with purpose toward 202. With any luck, Moran wouldn't shoot him the moment he entered the room. Well, entered being a euphemism. Upon arriving at room 202 he kicked open the door, splintering the lock. Lestrade had been right, it was Moran. As the door splintered open, he leapt up, whirled, and fired. Luckily, Sherlock had been expecting something like that and was flinging himself to the side as he entered. A bullet slammed into the wall just behind where his head would have been.

He retrieved his own gun, and Moran blinked in surprise. Sherlock had designed the jacket specially. Deepened the pockets so it was impossible to tell what, if anything, was in them. He'd had Molly go out of the room and put different things in the pockets, including the gun, and readjusting the pockets until he couldn't tell when there was something in them at all.

Moran didn't stay surprised long, he fired again. Sherlock had seen it coming, the man had a tell, a slight shifting of the eyes, and a tiny movement of his trigger finger, as though he were caressing the trigger, just before he shot. Sherlock didn't know if he could be so lucky a third time. Moran was clever, and a bloody amazing shot. He wouldn't miss a third time. Sherlock got off a shot himself, but it missed, bullet lodging itself in the mini-fridge to Moran's left. The man himself remained focused, gun up, finger twitching. Sherlock feinted to the left, then dropped straight down. Moran got off two shots, one where Sherlock would have been had he actually jumped to the left, and one that he actually felt whizz through his hair. One shot left. At least, in that gun. Moran probably had others stashed elsewhere.

He could see Moran approaching from his reflection in the window. He'd only have one shot at this. He stood, whirled, and shot, just as a second loud crack rang out. He felt something thud into his left shoulder. He dully saw Moran fall to his knees, hole in his stomach. Somehow, Sherlock managed to edge over to him, glare at the man gasping for breath on the floor. He raised his gun again and fired, the bullet going cleanly through Moran's head.

Hospital he thought. His vision was already greying, he clutched at his shoulder. He'd never imagined it would hurt this badly. It was lucky, he knew, that he had fired when he did. The recoil had made it so he'd moved slightly as Moran's bullet had entered his body, otherwise it would have hit him solidly in the heart. He managed to get out the door before collapsing from pain and blood loss. He heard running feet, and Lestrade's voice issuing an all clear. "You idiot, you should have waited." He blacked out.

He awoke in a hospital, IV dripping a clear fluid into his arm. Lestrade was standing there, arms crossed. "Why the hell didn't you wait Sherlock?"

"Had to end it. It wasn't safe if he remained alive." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, but it wasn't your decision to make. You should have let the courts handle it." Sherlock scoffed.

"He wouldn't have been charged with anything, he's too good. And anyway, he shot first."

"Self defense, alright. We can go with that."

"What if no one were to find the gun he was shot with, and there was no way to prove that I shot him at all? There might have been a second shooter and I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time." Sherlock grinned, then winced, as a stab of pain shot through him. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How bad is it?"

"You'll have a nice scar. But they got the bullet out cleanly, and even though you lost a lot of blood, you're fine now. You have to stay a few days, for observation and to make sure the bullet wound doesn't get infected." Sherlock nodded.

"Where's John?"

"At his flat, I assume."

"No one told him? I've been here three days, and no one told him?"

"How'd you know how long you've been here?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a whiteboard on the wall opposite him. It had the date on it. Lestrade noticed it and had the grace to look embarrassed. "Look, we weren't sure if you'd want him to know. We didn't even tell the hospital folks who you were." He sighed. "I have to go. I'll stop by John's place tonight and let him know where you are."

"No, don't do that. You were right, I don't want him to know I got hurt. Let him think I'm dead for a bit longer." Lestrade nodded.

"Just stay here and relax. Heal up." Sherlock nodded. A nurse came in and asked him questions and fiddled with his medication. He still felt a bit fuzzy, being unconscious for three days will do that to a person, but he was still fairly lucid. Whatever pain meds they had him on were working, mostly, aside from a rather unpleasant constant throbbing in his shoulder. He waited fifteen minutes after she left to rip the IV from his arm. It started beeping at him, but he ignored it. His clothes were lying on a chair across the room. He knew that wasn't supposed to happen. Lestrade. He had to grin, but he dressed quickly. Different clothes. Not the ones he'd been wearing upon admission. He wasn't sure where Lestrade had gotten one of his old suits, or the coat that looked remarkably similar to his old one, but in either case, Lestrade obviously knew he was going to make a break for it as soon as possible. Good for him. Sherlock made a mental note to thank him. Not outright, because Lestrade wouldn't be able to admit helping to sneak someone out of a hospital when he'd been shot, but maybe he would be nicer at the next crime scene or something. He'd figure it out. He dressed quickly as he could, though buttoning the shirt took longer than he'd expected, as little flares of pain kept shooting up and down his arm.

He pulled on the coat, too bad Lestrade couldn't find him a scarf, but, he'd take what he could get he supposed, and peeked out the door. Nothing. The machine was still beeping infernally behind him, so he quickly pulled the door closed and started down the hall. He thought at one point he heard a gasp of recognition, but he couldn't be sure if it was his nurse who knew he shouldn't be wandering around in street clothes or if someone recognized him from the papers, so he walked faster.

When he finally reached the street, he was a bit dizzy. Too much action after blood loss and unconsciousness, not to mention the physical trauma of being shot and the mental and emotional trauma of the past few years he decided. He hailed a cab, gave the address for John's new flat. He closed his eyes and passed out in the cab, woken only by the rough yell of the cabbie. He didn't have any money, having just broken out of the hospital and his wallet in his other pants, but he ignored that. Gave the cabbie a phone number and promised compensation. He hurried away while the cabbie was still yelling insults, threatening to call the cops and just being generally unpleasant. Ridiculous. Mycroft would pay him, if he'd just call the damn number. He pushed every single buzz button, and, luckily, someone let him in. He leaned against the wall, regaining his breath for a moment—this being an invalid thing was not working out well for him at all—and then headed into the lift. He slumped against the wall during the short trip, his legs already shaky, and his shoulder hurting more now, the medication was wearing off.

Now he stood outside John's door, staring at the handle. He touched it with one finger, then slowly turned the handle. Locked. Shit.

John had been about to take a sip of tea when the door handle jiggled. He had called out of work the past few days, trying to sort everything out. He hadn't answered his phone or buzzed anyone up when someone came by. But still, someone was at his door. He slowly stood up and walked toward the door. He reached out a shaking hand and unlocked it, then slowly pulled it open. The figure standing there couldn't possibly be there. He couldn't be.

"Hello John," it said, and oh god, he was there, pale and emaciated and clearly in pain from the way he held his left arm stiff and was bracing himself against the door frame with his right, but he was there and he was alive and smiling.

The mug of tea shattered on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That's it. It's a bit...weird, I know, the ending. I dunno how well the action-y bits works out. It makes sense in my head, but transferring it to paper...not as much.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit:  
> Also, I just now discovered that 'Adrian' was the name of the youngest son of Arthur Conan Doyle. I had no idea about that when I chose the name "Adrian Beck" as Sherlock's pseudonym. Apparently, I'm a bit psychic.


End file.
